


(Make the Yule-tide Gay) From Now On Our Troubles Will Be Miles Away

by irrationalgame



Series: Thommy Xmas Prompts [7]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Car Accidents, Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28293246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrationalgame/pseuds/irrationalgame
Summary: Thomas is still recovering from his suicide attempt when serendipity (and some meddling from Baxter) brings an old friend back into his life.Set between season 6 episode 8 and the finale, but some hand-waving has happened about the timeline of when Thomas left for his new job so this could fit into the context of Xmas. Mind the tags.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Jimmy Kent
Series: Thommy Xmas Prompts [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2031865
Comments: 37
Kudos: 84
Collections: A Very Thomas Barrow Christmas 2020





	1. 22nd December, 1925

**Author's Note:**

> For prompt 6: Hot cocoa/hot chocolate - “What do you mean you don’t like hot chocolate?! Don’t you like fun?” and prompt 24: Christmas Eve - “I can think of worse ways to start Christmas.” “I can think of better ones.”
> 
> Title: Lyrics from ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’
> 
> Dedicated to all the Thomas Barrow Fan Club discord gang because you guys have made my year. Love you.

Downton Abbey at Christmas was a sight to behold: the building like a great, glowing bauble perched atop a pristine snowy scene; the tree in the hall all a-twinkle with lights and tinsel and perfectly placed ornaments; the smell of cinnamon and ginger floating through the rooms. It was cosy and merry and beautiful and Thomas _hated_ it.

It hadn’t exactly been a good couple of years; the devastating departure of Jimmy, the ignominious failure of the _‘choose your own path’_ treatment and then, the more recent unspeakable events that had left Thomas more of an outcast than ever before. Combined, it had all sapped away any jolliness, mirth or goodwill Thomas had left. Everyone else’s happiness only made his own misery sharper by comparison.

Thomas sat in his favourite rocking chair (and really, who has a favourite chair if not a sad, lonely old man?) by the warm glow of the fire and smoked, staring into the ripping, marbled orange of the hot embers. Soon even this simple pleasure would be no more - pity would only keep him safe for so long then he’d be out on his ear. The job search was still fruitless but it was hard to put his heart and soul into it when he didn’t want to leave.

In the new year he’d have to redouble his efforts; he didn’t know how much longer they’d tolerate him intruding on their _kindness_. It hurt his heart to know he was intruding in the only place he’d called home since he was a fourteen year old lad.

Andy was sitting at the table laughing and talking to the hall boy Albert about something or another - neither of them paid Thomas and his misery any mind.

“Albert? Andy?” Baxter said, peeking around the door from the corridor like a timid mouse on the lookout for the cat, “Mrs Patmore is making hot chocolate, would you like some?”

Both men made happy noises in the affirmative.

“And what about you, Mr Barrow?” Baxter added.

“No thanks,” Thomas replied. He didn’t even look up from the fire.

Baxter sighed softly; “Are you sure? It smells heavenly.”

“I don’t like it,” Thomas lied. In truth he had a fiendishly sweet tooth and adored hot chocolate, but in his melancholia he couldn’t bring himself to enjoy the things he used to. Even smoking held little pleasure any more and was done like a chore to satisfy his craving and ease his nerves.

“What do you mean you don’t like hot chocolate?! Don’t you like fun?” Andy asked with an incredulous tone. He hadn’t meant it callously - the lad didn’t have it in him - but it cut through Thomas’s weakened defences like a hot knife through butter.

_Or a razor through a wrist._

Thomas got up from the chair and wordlessly walked out into the yard. He lit another cigarette and leaned against the wall - his usual spot always felt so empty now, without Jimmy’s youthful exuberance and dazzling blue eyes and constant whirl of motion. For a while it had been _their_ spot and the thought made Thomas’s chest ache as if he’d breathed in a lungful of something cold and mortally poisonous.

He wasn’t there long before Baxter ventured out to find him - Lord knew she was persistent and had the patience of a saint. He couldn’t bring himself to be unkind to her anymore, even if sometimes he wished she’d leave him to wallow.

“Here,” she said, handing him a steaming mug. “Don’t think you can pull the wool over my eyes, Mr Barrow.”

The hot chocolate smelled incredible; sweet with a hint of cinnamon and spice and he was thoroughly tempted.

“I remember a little boy who once got into awful trouble for eating all the chocolate his Ma had brought especially for Christmas.”

Thomas gave her a wan smile. “Yes, and he got a right good hiding for it.”

“Maybe so,” she smiled, “but you won’t convince me he’s lost his sweet tooth.”

Thomas sighed; she was too nice and too insightful by far. “Fine, yes, thank you,” he ground out and took a sip. It was like drinking liquid bliss. He didn’t want to enjoy it.

“Are you dreadfully unhappy still?” Baxter asked, so quietly Thomas wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it.

Thomas clenched his jaw. “I’m fine,” he said, not convincing either of them.

“It’s alright not to be, you know.”

Thomas took a long gulp of the hot chocolate so he didn’t have to speak for a moment. It burned his tongue and his throat on the way down. Good.

“What difference does it make if I am or not?” Thomas eventually replied. “There’s nothing to be done about it. Nothing I haven’t already tried at any rate.”

Baxter eyed him warily. “Does Jimmy still write?”

Ah, and that hit a nerve. “Yes,” it wasn’t exactly a lie. He did write, just very sporadically and - well, as he’d always been when he was here in person, he still blew hot and cold. In one letter he’d be overly pally, to the point of sentimentality, as he talked of how they were best mates and how he missed this or that thing they used to do together, only for the next letter to be brusque and cold and only half a dozen lines long. And there hadn’t been a letter since before...it happened. He supposed it was to be expected that Jimmy would eventually move on with his life, even if Thomas was too pathetic to do so himself.

It seemed even from a distance the ex-footman was still managing to upset Thomas’s humours.

“You should tell him,” Baxter said.

“A fine letter that would make; “Hello Jimmy, I took a razor to my own wrists mate, but I couldn’t even do that right.”

Baxter just regarded him with those blasted kind eyes. “Pushing me and everyone else away won’t help.”

Fed up, Thomas snapped; “ _They’re_ the ones pushing me away - _they’re_ making me leave!” and stormed off inside to find something to occupy himself. There were always jobs to be done in the run up to Christmas.

* * *

Over the next couple of weeks Thomas scarcely had time to be maudlin - there were parties, soirées, Lady Edith’s wedding and the servant’s ball to make arrangements for, and Carson had placed the bulk of the organisational work firmly on his shoulders. For a man who insisted he didn’t need an under-butler, he sure didn’t mind palming his work off to one.

Thomas stared at the wine ledger with tired eyes - there was to be one final party on Christmas Eve, which was only two days away, before the blessed lull of the big day itself. With the family seeing to themselves for most of Christmas Day, Thomas knew if he could just get the last-minute details for Christmas Eve in order, he’d have a couple of days of coasting along until the big build up to the servant’s ball, then Edith’s blasted wedding.

He’d never much liked Edith - as a young woman she had been as unpleasant as Mary but without any of the natural charm her sister had to make up for it. When she’d been left at the altar though - well, even Thomas felt badly for her then. No one deserved to have their heart so publicly ripped out and thrown around. In recent years she’d matured though, and become more likeable - Thomas suspected it was a lot to do with the disappearance of Mr Gregson, her long trip abroad with Lady Rosamund, and the appearance of her not-so-mysterious ‘ward’. But to see even the unlucky Edith about to get married to someone who seemed to love her dearly (and appeared to be a damn decent chap at that, with the bonus of being a damn _marquess_ ) just made Thomas feel more alone and wretched and unlovable.

Even bleedin’ Edith was getting her happy every after.

Thomas rubbed at his wrists with the back of his knuckles; the scars itched something chronic, even though they were almost fully healed. He wondered vaguely if his mind was making up the itch to remind him of what he’d almost done and should probably do again and _get it bloody right this time_. He knew where the key to the shotguns was kept. That might be easier. He sighed, pushed both his spiralling thoughts and his tiredness aside and tried to focus on the work - it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do.

His concentration was broken by music floating down from the servant’s hall, only for it to end with a horrible piercing scratch. Mr Matthew’s old gramophone had been dug out for the upstairs lot, but had needed some repair and so had spent a few days in the servant’s hall whilst Thomas organised its service. Obviously the engineer had arrived to fix it, as the sound of a jazzy piece he didn’t recognise permeated the walls before being cut short by that same hideous scraping noise.

It split his already aching and befuddled head and he marched into the corridor and towards the servant’s hall, his face thunderous, ready to tell the idiot gramophone man to turn the bloody thing down.

Andy was standing over the gramophone, peering intently at the engineer as he fiddled with the disgorged insides of the machine and Thomas stopped, his heart momentarily forgetting how to beat in his chest - he _knew_ that coiffed golden hair, the line of those muscled shoulders - he’d know them anywhere.

“Jimmy?” he gasped and the former footman looked up from his work, fixing Thomas with one of his brilliant smiles.

“Hullo Mr Barrow,” he grinned and Thomas couldn’t help but smile in return. Andy looked between them, confused.

“What - how are you _here_?” Thomas gaped.

“I’m fixing your gramophone,” Jimmy replied, as if he were a bit simple, “like you hired me to.”

“I’m sure I’d have noticed if I had?”

Jimmy smirked; “Well it were technically me boss who you hired, but when I saw the call had come from the one-and-only under-butler at ‘ _Downton bleedin’ Abbey_ ’, I convinced him to send me instead.”

Thomas noticed Andy staring at them and said; “Andy, Jimmy was a footman here before you. Ah - fetch us some tea, would you?”

Andy nodded then disappeared off to the kitchens. Jimmy was out of his seat the second Andy left and stepped into Thomas’s space, taking his hand to shake it firmly.

“You didn’t think to tell me you were coming?” Thomas said, and coughed, embarrassed at how broken his voice sounded.

“I thought it would be more fun to surprise you,” Jimmy replied, Thomas’s hand still clasped in his grease-smeared one. He placed his other hand purposefully on Thomas’s elbow. “I wanted to see the look on your face.”

And he leaned in and embraced Thomas, who stood stock still, stupefied, for a long moment, before allowing himself to place a careful hand in the centre of Jimmy’s back.

“I’ve missed you,” Jimmy breathed, smelling of oil and wood - it reminded Thomas of the back room of his Dad’s clock shop. Thomas thought he must be dreaming; any moment he’d wake in his lonely little room and this would all have been a precious but painful fantasy.

They broke apart, both blushing, and Thomas said; “I still don’t understand - the last I heard you were in London at that club - and the shop I called about the gramophone was in York?”

“I didn’t want to say anything until it were settled,” Jimmy shrugged, “and it’s why you haven’t heard from me for a bit. I were busy rearranging me whole life, Mr Barrow.”

“Thomas,” he corrected.

Jimmy gave him the warmest of smiles and Thomas was hit squarely in the chest with how much he still loved the former footman. More than ever, if that were possible. It took all the wind out of him and he had to clench his jaw hard enough to hurt to stop from crying.

“Thomas. I’ve got a little place of me own in York and a good job - it’s all fiddly bits and you’d be better at it than me, but it’s alright really and it’s bought me _here_ ,” he was rambling now, bouncing on the balls of his feet with nerves, “and just a bus ride away instead of three hours on the blasted train, so you won’t be gettin’ rid of me again.”

Thomas blinked. “You’ve moved to York?”

“Oh bloody hell, keep up Thomas,” Jimmy laughed and, like that, it was as they’d never been apart.

“I’m - I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’re glad and you can’t wait to spend your half-days in York with me,” he said, all false bravado, the fingers of his left hand drumming against his thigh like he was playing a piano - a tell of his.

Thomas didn’t have the strength to even pretend to be coy; “I’m very glad indeed, Jimmy. I just can’t quite believe you’re here.” He couldn’t bear to tell him he’d be out of a job soon enough and might have to move away.

Jimmy leaned in so closely that Thomas could’ve counted his eyelashes. “It’s a Christmas miracle,” he breathed, his eyes darting down to Thomas’s mouth. Jimmy swallowed thickly and licked his bottom lip, and for a moment Thomas thought he was going to kiss him.

He pushed the thought away; it wouldn’t do him any good to get lost in impossible fantasies.

Of course, Mrs Hughes chose that moment to walk in to the servant’s hall. “James? Is that you?” she said, surprised.

Jimmy stepped away from Thomas and gave Mrs Hughes a winsome smile. “Hullo Mrs Hughes. I’m here to fix the gramophone.”

“Well, isn’t that something?” she said with a smile. She gave Thomas a knowing glance. “It’s good to see you’re doing well.”

“I am Mrs Hughes, though all the better for being back here for a visit,” Jimmy gave Thomas a very fond look. “I’ve missed you all.”

“I bet you have,” Mrs Hughes chuckled, her eyes still firmly on Thomas.

Andy reappeared with the tea, Daisy and Mrs Patmore in tow, all eager to see the former footman. Jimmy exchanged pleasantries with them, but he sat very close to Thomas and every time Thomas looked at him he found Jimmy was already staring in his direction.

Baxter appeared and Jimmy immediately gave her a cheeky wink - to Thomas’s surprise she nodded back to him, like they shared some secret. Which was impossible of course, as they barely knew each other.

“What’re ya doin’ for Christmas then Jimmy?” Daisy asked.

“Spendin’ it on me ownsome I s’pose,” Jimmy sipped his tea, “don’t have anyone in York to spend it with.”

Thomas was about to say something stupid and soppy, but Mrs Hughes beat him to it.

“Then you’ll come here,” she said, “we can’t have you spending Christmas Day all on your own now, can we?”

“Mr Carson wouldn’t like that,” Jimmy said.

“What wouldn’t I like?” Mr Carson said, entering to see an unapproved gathering in the servant’s hall. His eyes fell on Jimmy and his face rearranged itself from mere disapproval to utter contempt. “Ah, never mind, I can see for myself.”

“Jimmy is here to fix the gramophone - that’s what he does now,” Thomas said, defensive - he wasn’t about to let old Carson chase Jimmy away when he’d just got him back again.

Carson looked at the half-drunk tea things and the gramophone with its innards still disgorged all over the table. “Does he really,” he said dryly.

“Mr Carson,” Mrs Hughes interrupted, “may I have a word please?” She inclined her head towards the corridor and Carson nodded - they both stepped out. Daisy started talking to Jimmy again and Thomas strained his ears to try and hear the conversation between Mrs Hughes and Carson, but couldn’t quite make it out.

Eventually Mrs Hughes re-entered and said; “We look forward to you joining us for Christmas James.” She gave Thomas a conspiratorial smile and headed off. It seemed Mr Carson, like many men before him, was powerless against the will of his wife.

Everyone gradually drifted back to work and Jimmy and Thomas were left alone in the servant’s hall. Jimmy sat down in front of the gramophone and started cleaning off some unidentifiable parts. Thomas fiddled with his cuffs and watched Jimmy work.

“So...gramophones?” Thomas said.

“Gramophones. And wireless radios,” Jimmy nodded, inspecting a tiny gear. “You’d like it y’know, it’s all putting little broken things back in order. You’d be good at it too - like you are with watches and clocks and that. Gramophones are simple really, it’s the wireless what’s complicated.”

The compliment warmed Thomas’s insides, but he said; “This dog is too old to learn new tricks.”

Jimmy reached out and took hold of Thomas’s left wrist. “Not too old, not by half,” he said, suddenly very serious, “and much too young to _die_.” He turned Thomas’s hand over and popped out the link from his cuff in one quick movement of his skilled hands - Thomas tried to pull away but Jimmy held him fast, marking the white of Thomas’s shirt with grease as he folded back the cuff.

And so Thomas’s shame was revealed; a raised and still red two-inch scar running up his up forearm from his wrist. Jimmy stared at it intently, brushing his fingers over the skin in a barely-there touch. He laid Thomas’s hand on his knee then repeated the process with his right wrist; stud popped out, cuff folded back, fingers ghosting over the sensitive skin of Thomas’s inner forearms.

He wanted to tell Jimmy to _stop_ \- he felt so exposed under his intense scrutiny he might as well have been naked. He was a stupid, old man who’d tried to take the coward’s way out and had failed even at that.

When Jimmy eventually looked up Thomas was shocked to see he was crying, silent tears wetting his cheeks.

“I should punch your eyes! You were goin’ to leave me?” Jimmy ground out, equal parts angry and hurt.

“You left me first,” Thomas spat back, then looked away, ashamed. It wasn’t Jimmy’s fault - yes, it had all started with his departure but there was so much more wrapped up in it than just that. _Choose Your Own Path_ , the business with Andy, Carson’s continuous and callus threats against his position - they were things Thomas could’ve borne individually, but altogether they’d proved too much even for him.

Jimmy gave a strangled sort of sob. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here but, I am, but _Christ_ Thomas, you never said - you never told me everything was so bad.”

“I didn’t want to trouble you.”

Jimmy grasped Thomas by the shoulders and shook him. “We’re supposed to be mates - _best_ bloody mates - who can you trouble if not your best mate, Thomas? From now on you’ll trouble me with every little thing that goes though your bleedin’ head, alright?”

Thomas blinked at the ferocity of Jimmy’s outburst and the emotion behind it. Jimmy wasn’t one for such outwardly showy displays, unless it was of anger. He sobbed again, this time not bothering to try and hide it, and roughly pulled Thomas into his arms.

“I’ll try Jimmy, I will,” Thomas said quietly against Jimmy’s shaking shoulder. He didn’t much care for talking about his feelings - he hadn’t really had the opportunity to practice it much in his life and it left him feeling naked and raw and stupid if he even attempted it. The rejection that usually came hand-in-hand with it didn’t help. And if he actually were to tell Jimmy about the dark paths his thoughts walked sometimes, it would probably frighten him half to death. Or away, at least.

“I’ve moved halfway across the country to be nearer to you, you mardy old git, so you bloody better,” Jimmy sniffed, still holding Thomas in his arms.

Thomas must’ve heard that wrong, because there was no way Jimmy had changed his job and moved to York just to be closer to _him_. “What?” Then, once it occurred to him; “Wait - you knew didn’t you? How did you know?”

“You’ve got more friends here than you think,” Jimmy replied, finally drawing back to look at Thomas with watery eyes.

“Baxter,” Thomas said. So that explained the conspiratorial wink then.

“She wrote to me a few weeks ago. I very nearly jumped on the first train here, job be damned, but I realised I wouldn’t be doing either of us any favours if I added to our worries,” he finally released Thomas and sank back into his chair, wiping his face with a sleeve. “D’ya have a smoke?”

“Course,” Thomas said, fishing the pack and lighter from his pocket and pressing it into Jimmy’s hand. Some things never changed.

“Ta,” Jimmy said - he lit two and gave one to Thomas, a reversal of their old habit where Thomas was usually the one to do the lighting. They smoked in silence for a few minutes, Jimmy’s eyes flicking down to Thomas’s loose cuffs at regular intervals.

“If you want to ask something,” Thomas said, “ask it.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not any more.”

A small nod. “Was it painful when - when you?”

“Yes. But only for a moment. Then it was just falling asleep.” That was the most Thomas had ever said on that subject in one go. He took a very shaky drag on his cigarette.

Jimmy looked at his lap. “Why?”

“I hurt and I had nothing and my life was empty,” Thomas replied, honestly, “I couldn’t see the point anymore. I’d never have anything or anyone and—“ he shook his head. “I can’t Jimmy. It’s too - I still hurt so much. I’ve still got nothing and no one and I’ll have no job soon neither and - Christ, it’s like someone’s hollowed me out, scraped away everything I used to be, and filled my insides with nothing but misery.”

Jimmy was quiet for a very long time - his cigarette burned all the way down to his fingertips and he had to drop it into the ashtray before it caught him.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas said, at a loss.

“Don’t apologise for Christ’s sake,” Jimmy said. He scrubbed his face with his abused sleeve. “You’re wrong about one thing though - ah, no, _three_ things actually. First, you’ve got _me_.”

“Jimmy—“

“Shut up for a minute alright? We’re best mates, ain’t we?”

Thomas nodded.

“The very best, an’ you’ve always been there for me. I’m sorry I’ve been lackin’ in that department but I won’t throw away this second chance, alright? You’ve got me now, forever an’ a day if you’ll have me. No other bugger could put up with me the way you do anyway,” he gave a particularly shit-eating grin.

“No one else is stupid enough to.”

“I think it shows very good taste, actually.”

Thomas couldn’t help but feel a sliver of hope rise at Jimmy’s words. He made sure to quash it. “Ok, so what were the other two things I was wrong about?”

“Well, you’ll just have to wait and see ‘bout those.”

* * *

Eventually the gramophone was fixed and Jimmy couldn’t eke out his stay any longer - Thomas walked him out the back to where his little van was parked up. It had _’Vickers Gramophones’_ painted on the side in a green very similar to Thomas’s livery waistcoat.

“You know how to drive?” Thomas asked.

“Yeah, it’s not hard?” Jimmy replied, stowing his tools. Thomas begged to differ but didn’t voice it. “Here—“ he handed Thomas a business card with the address and telephone number of the shop on it. “I’ve got the flat above the shop so that’s my address an’ all. In case you wanted to pop by. I mean you’d be very welcome. Whenever. Any time. The shop shuts at five and I’ve not got nothin’ to do in the evenings ‘cept drink and smoke so you’d be savin’ me money and me health if you came by.”

Thomas grinned at that - Jimmy couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d begged. “I will,” Thomas said and Jimmy grinned back, “but probably after Christmas now - I’ve got too much to do.”

Jimmy looked a shade disappointed but shoved his hands in his pockets and said; “Well I’ll be back for Christmas anyway, so I’ve only gotta wait two days to see you again.”

“I’m sure you can manage.”

“I’m not so sure,” Jimmy bumped his shoulder against Thomas’s, “I’m runnin’ out of smokes for a start.”

They just gazed at each other for a while until Jimmy pulled a disgruntled face and said; “Right, I really have to go or I’ll be in trouble,” but stayed rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on Thomas’s. “I err—“ he held out his hand for Thomas to shake and the under-butler was instantly transported to the night after the fire, when they’d shared a much more maudlin goodbye. He must have slipped and let his face show something of his thoughts, as Jimmy’s stepped in close and put both his hands on Thomas’s biceps.

“Thomas, what’s the matter?” Jimmy said, “you look all—” he gave a vague little gesture with his head, his mouth twisted over to one side in worry.

“I just - this reminded me of when you left, is all.”

Jimmy looked pained. “I’m comin’ back - I promise I’m comin’ back this time,” he said and squeezed Thomas’s arms; he could feel the heat of Jimmy’s palms through his sleeves. “Thomas. I promise.”

Thomas nodded, feeling a bit ridiculous. “I know.”

“Right,” Jimmy said, pulling away and clambering into his van, “I’ll be back on Christmas day Mr Barrow! Like the fuckin’ Christ!”

Thomas barked out a laugh and the last glance he got of Jimmy before he drove off was the erstwhile footman’s ridiculous grin beaming at him out of the van window.


	2. Christmas Eve, 1925

Two days was nothing in comparison to the almost two years they’d spent apart, but Thomas felt every second of it with excruciating clarity. He barely slept, his body full of a nervous energy, and by the time every job was done on Christmas Eve he was exhausted and terrified in equal measure.

He had one fear; that Jimmy would never come back. If that happened he knew with absolute conviction he wouldn’t survive it. Losing Jimmy once had set him on a path of self-destruction that he’d nearly walked to completion. Round two would be the end of him.

He’d distracted himself by walking into the village and spending entirely too much on a very nice silver zippo lighter and several cartons of cigarettes, which he’d wrapped in a neat box. He’d spent ages choosing a card and had eventually settled on one with a funny picture of a little blonde boy about to be smashed by a giant, rolling snowball. Then he agonised over what to write inside, trying to tread the line between overly soppy and too glib.

He wanted to write _‘I love you, please don’t leave me again, I need you’_ but instead trumped for _‘H_ _appy to have you around - it_ is _a Christmas_ _miracle’_ , and signed it _‘love, Thomas’_ because he thought he could probably just about get away with that.

The upstairs Christmas Eve shindig had petered out fairly early and everyone had gone to bed in anticipation of the next day’s festivities. Thomas was alone in the servant’s hall, nursing, ironically, a hot chocolate that Mrs Patmore had placed at his elbow with a little smile, and reading yet another book. He’d practically worked his way through the library by this point. He glanced up at the clock with tired eyes; ten minutes to midnight. He sighed and was considering at least trying for bed when he heard a quiet knocking at the servant’s entrance door.

He frowned; it was the middle of the night so was very unlikely to be anyone invited. Perhaps there had been an emergency of some kind, though people were more likely to telephone these days, or at least turn up at the _front_ door in that case, where a hallboy would be around to see to them.

The knock came again then a muffled; “Mr Barrow?”

Jimmy.

That was definitely _Jimmy_.

Thomas strode down the corridor and unbolted the door. Sure enough, standing out in the starlight in a very nice tweed suit, clutching a bottle of wine and a merrily decorated box, was Jimmy Kent.

“Jimmy?” Thomas hissed, “It’s nearly midnight!”

Jimmy’s face screwed up; “Shite, better let me in then. Don’t wanna miss it.” And he barged his way inside. Thomas gaped after him for a moment before shaking his head and re-bolting the door, then following Jimmy down the corridor and into the servant’s hall.

Jimmy deposited his package on the table and stood, bobbing on the balls of his feet, in the middle of the room.

“What - Jimmy what are you doing here?”

“I said I’d be back for Christmas and I am,” Jimmy replied smugly, “just in the nick of time an’ all.”

“When Mrs Hughes invited you for Christmas, I don’t think this is what she had in mind,” Thomas said with a snort.

Jimmy shrugged. “Not my fault she didn’t specify a time.” He closed in on Thomas with intent and pinned him between the table and himself. “I wanted to be here when it hit midnight - I didn’t want to miss a minute of Christmas with you. I’m never going to miss Christmas with you again.”

“I - ah - well,” Thomas said stupidly. His brain had apparently forgotten how to parse a sentence. Jimmy’s proximity hardly helped.

The clock gave a little whirring click of clockwork and sounded the hour; it was officially Christmas. Jimmy threw one arm around Thomas’s neck and kissed him affectionately on the cheek. Thomas froze, disarmed by Jimmy’s intimacy, until Jimmy pulled him in closer and huffed in his ear; “Relax will ya, you miserable sod, it’s like hugging a marble statue.”

Thomas chuckled despite himself and forced himself to relax a little into the embrace, his hand hovering awkwardly near Jimmy’s hip.

“Merry Christmas, Mr Barrow,” Jimmy said, “And I hope it’s off to a good start.”

They parted and regarded each other nervously for a moment before Jimmy said; “I hope - I mean was that - alright?”

Thomas smiled. _‘Alright’_ was a very large understatement. “I can think of worse ways to start Christmas,” Thomas said as casually as he could given the circumstances. His heart felt like it was trying to beat itself to death against his sternum.

“I can think of better ones,” Jimmy replied and quirked an eyebrow.

Thomas blinked - was he _flirting_?

“The wine?” Jimmy clarified. “Let’s get sloshed, eh? But not here where anyone could walk in and spoil it.” He tapped three fingers on his chin, thinking, then said; “Aha, of course. Your room.” It all seemed very staged but Thomas couldn’t imagine why.

“Alright,” he agreed before he knew what he was saying. Jimmy bounced up on his toes, pleased, and scooped up his package and the bottle of wine. Thomas flicked out the lights and they made their way up to his room.

Once inside Jimmy toed off his shoes and stripped out of his jacket and tie, slinging them on the back of Thomas’s chair like he used to when he worked in the house and he’d come to Thomas’s room to drink and gossip and play endless rounds of cards.

“Make yourself at home why don’t you?” Thomas smirked, hanging his livery jacket and stowing his collar and tie.

“I am, ta,” Jimmy snapped back and made moves to open the wine. He helped himself to a cigarette from Thomas’s dresser and sat in the armchair with his feet on the bed and the bottle balanced between his thighs.

Thomas almost took off his shirt to sit about in his undershirt like he usually did, but the thought of having his scars on show all the time gave him pause, so he settled for undoing most of the buttons instead.

Jimmy took a long drink straight from the bottle of red wine - an absolute sin, especially as it hadn’t even been left to breathe, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Blimey that’s... _strong_ ,” he said, appraisingly.

Thomas took the bottle; it was a decent merlot, not expensive enough for the upstairs table but definitely too nice to be slurped from the bottle. He went to his bureau and rummaged for the two glasses he knew were buried somewhere at the back - they’d been there since Jimmy left, a relic from the old days he hadn’t had the heart to remove. Jimmy watched as he rinsed the glasses off and then poured out a small amount, swirling it around his glass.

“Blimey, next you’ll be talking about the—“ he put on a terribly affected _upstairs_ voice “—high notes of citrus and the depth of winter berries.”

“Just because you’re a classless heathen.”

Jimmy shrugged. “Takes one to know one.”

“Ah, the comeback of the stupid and the defeated.”

“Shut up and pass me my wine you old bastard.”

Thomas smiled and obliged - he’d missed _this_.

Jimmy drained his glass with a deliberately rude slurp and thrust the gift towards Thomas. “Now open your card and present before I change me mind and keep it. But do the present first will ya?”

Thomas chuckled. “Alright then.” He sat on the bed and undid the bow - inside lay three odd and seemingly unrelated things: a green box containing a chocolate shaped like an apple from the new Terry’s chocolate works in York; three random keys on a plain ring; an old and fairly expensive-looking gold men’s wedding band. Thomas frowned into the box - clearly there was some meaning to it all but whatever it was had sailed directly over his head.

“Now the card,” Jimmy prompted, “it’ll make sense, I promise.”

Thomas peeled open the card - the front was decorated with a happy, snowy scene and a little poem which read:

_Forget you at Christmas?_   
_No that couldn’t be!_   
_Remembering you_   
_Is a habit with me._

Thomas had to swallow down a lump in his throat as he turned over to see that Jimmy had filled the whole inside of the card in his tight, sloping hand:

_Dearest Thomas, because you are the dearest thing to me in the world and you deserve to be addressed as such._

_I’ve written these words so many times my hand knows the shape of them before I form them. Of course, I’m such a coward I never sent the letters and I never said the words when I should’ve. And I was nearly too late to ever be able to say them. Which is fucking disgraceful and I’m so ashamed I feel like it’s burning me up from the inside._

_So here I am, saying it now even though I don’t know if it’ll mean anything to you anymore. It might be too late for us, even if it’s not too late for you to hear it. I honestly don’t know what will happen but I have to tell you anyway. I love you Thomas. I do, truly._

Thomas had to stop reading then and glance up at Jimmy - he was on the edge of his seat, one hand gripping the armrest so tightly his fingers were white, the other threatening to snap the stem off his wineglass. Thomas turned back to the letter - surely he’d read it wrong?

_I love you and I have for a long time. It took losing you from my life and then almost losing you altogether to make me realise it. I’m sorry for everything but - if you still want me, I’m yours._

A great sob shook through Thomas as he read the words he’d longed to hear anyone - but especially Jimmy - say to him his entire life. Jimmy was beside him in a second, his arm around Thomas’s shaking shoulders. He had to blink back tears so he could read the last paragraph.

 _So here’s three things: One - copies of the keys to the shop and my flat - the old boy I work for wants to retire soon and being of_ our _sort and with no kids of his own, he wants me to take over. ‘Cept I’m shite at numbers and that and definitely need you to stop me running it into the ground. Two - me old Dad’s wedding ring. It eventually got back to me mum when he died at the front and then she gave it to me when she had the flu. Now I’m giving it to you; we can’t marry but it’s the closest I can do. And three - a chocolate apple because I know you’ve got a terrible sweet_ _tooth and - well, it’s not all significant and poetic and all that bollocks like the other two but, I saw it and thought of you. I’m always thinking of you, just so you know._

_Please say you’ll risk it all and come with me? I know I’m not easy to love, and I can’t hardly believe you did in the first place, but if you still do, you’d make me the happiest bloke alive if you’ll agree to it all. If not, I’ll understand it and I’ll just be your mate Jimmy again instead._

_Love always, even if you are an old git,_   
_Jimmy_

_P.S. now look, you’ve made me into a right soppy bastard like you, I hope you’re bloody happy._

Thomas had to read the whole thing three times before he could believe it - Jimmy sat quietly and waited; he was the stillest Thomas had ever seen him be when awake. He realised, suddenly, that Jimmy’s arm was trembling madly where it lay across his shoulder and his breath was coming out in shaky puffs as he tried to keep calm.

Thomas didn’t even have to think about it. He turned to Jimmy and placed a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. Jimmy melted into him, both arms around Thomas’s back, crushing the card (and Thomas’s right hand) between their bodies.

“Took your bloody time, I was pissin’ me self waitin’ for you to say something,” Jimmy said into his neck.

“I had to make sure I hadn’t misunderstood,” Thomas replied, “last time I kissed you it didn’t go so well.”

“I was asleep you fuckin’ idiot,” Jimmy beamed, “what were you expectin’ to happen?”

Thomas shook his head; “I’m sorry.”

“Good. Now kiss me proper like. I’m not some bloody girl, y’know.”

“I had noticed.” Thomas frowned; he had so very many questions - about the shop and his job there, if Jimmy wanted him to live in the flat too, about the wedding ring - but they could wait. There was really only one question that mattered right now; “Jimmy - are - are you _sure_?”

Jimmy’s whole face softened and he cupped the cut of Thomas cheek with a trembling hand that belied his cocky demeanour. “I ain’t never been more sure of anything. ‘Cept that I’ll punch your bloody face if you don’t kiss me.”

Thomas huffed a laugh; of course Jimmy would be like _this_ about it. He leaned in and kissed Jimmy the way he’d always imagined he would if given the chance; slow and gentle at first, one hand on the back of his neck, then deeper and with intent, his lips parting to slide his tongue into Jimmy’s mouth. Jimmy moaned and his hands came up to Thomas’s shoulders as he leaned into the kiss, his own tongue pressing inexpertly against Thomas’s. Jimmy crawled into his lap, his legs around Thomas’s waist, his fingers finding their way under the unbuttoned front of his shirt.

It was Thomas who broke the kiss - he was going to get hard if they carried on like this and he didn’t want to go too fast for Jimmy. The former footman looked positively _debauched_ with red, wet lips and pink cheeks.

“Whassamatter?” he purred and kissed Thomas’s jaw, then stopped, his face serious. “Was that - I mean was it not alright? Am I no good?”

“Oh Jimmy no, that’s not it,” Thomas soothed, “it’s a bit _too_ good, if you catch my meaning.”

Jimmy blushed madly and then rocked his hips forward - Thomas gasped when he felt Jimmy’s hardness against his hip.

“I’m acutely familiar with your meanin’ actually,” he said, breathlessly. “I’ve never felt so - like I might _finish_ just from kissin’.”

“We can’t have that,” Thomas said, “it’d be a waste when there’s so many other things we could do.”

“What I want,” Jimmy said, rocking his hips forward again, the curve of his arse pushing down against Thomas’s arousal, “is to get my mouth all over you.”

“And are you expecting you’ll always get what you want with me?”

“Oh I know it Mr Barrow,” he smirked, “I always get my way with you.”

They took to kissing again, Jimmy becoming bolder with both his tongue and his hands, until he was stripping Thomas of his shirt and then his undershirt in between nipping at his mouth.

“Get it all off, yeah?” Jimmy said, hopping up off Thomas’s lap to divest himself of every scrap of clothing with startling speed. Thomas gaped as Jimmy shucked off his underwear and lobbed them somewhere behind him, and stood stark naked in the middle of the room, his cock jutting up proudly. “Like what you see, Mr Barrow?”

In that moment Thomas couldn’t have told you his own damn name.

“I ah - yes - I bloody do,” he finally managed, then stood up and kicked his own trousers and underwear off. Jimmy gazed at him, his eyes roving over every inch of Thomas’s skin, his mouth quirking into a self-satisfied grin as he took in the sight of Thomas’s manhood.

“Well look at you,” Jimmy said, “you’re absolutely bleedin’ gorgeous.” He walked over and slotted their bodies together like they were two halves of a thing that should never have been separated in the first place. Jimmy kissed along Thomas’s collarbone and his fingers dragged through the rough hair on his chest and stomach. Thomas trailed his hands up and down the smooth plane of Jimmy’s back, feeling the muscles move beneath his fingers.

“I can’t believe this,” Thomas said; it was the understatement of the century. “You’re here, naked in my arms. It’s like a dream.”

“D’ya dream of me naked in your arms often then?”

“Yes,” Thomas admitted and Jimmy laughed, then kissed him over and over until they were both panting. Jimmy fell backwards onto Thomas’s bed and pulled Thomas with him, the too-small cot groaning as it took the weight of two grown men. The mattress dipped dangerously and the old wooden slats creaked and Thomas couldn’t find it in himself to give a shit if they fell through the damn thing.

They kissed and laughed and kissed some more until Jimmy said with such earnest; “I love you, I do,” from beneath Thomas that he almost gave over to tears again. Then it was back to kissing and rutting up against each other like animals, Thomas’s thigh between Jimmy’s legs and Jimmy’s between Thomas’s, until the under-butler felt the coil of his building orgasm pull tight.

“Jimmy,” he gasped, leaning up on an elbow, “I will - if we don’t stop I’ll—“

Jimmy silenced him with a kiss that was more teeth and tongue than lips, and then spat in his own palm before lining their cocks up and curling his hand around them both.

“I want to feel you come, I wanna see your face, yeah?” Jimmy whispered, and that nearly bloody did it. He started fisting both their erections; it was too erotic, the slide of Jimmy’s hot, spit-slicked cock against his own, and it took mere moments before Thomas threw back his head and spilled his release over Jimmy’s still-moving fingers.

As Thomas regained some awareness he looked down to find Jimmy watching him with desire written across his ever-mobile face. He reached up with his free hand and ran his thumb over Thomas’s bottom lip, then pushed it into Thomas’s mouth. Thomas instinctively grazed it with his teeth - Jimmy moaned much too loudly to be sensible, roughly pumped his own still-hard cock half a dozen times and came with a cry of “ _Thomas_!”.

Thomas made sure to commit the scene to memory: Jimmy splayed out beneath him looking utterly spent, his hair sticking up at all angles, his eyes closed, lips swollen and wet and slightly parted. There was a fine sheen of sweat all over his skin, which was still slightly tanned even this deep into the winter. His hand and stomach and softening cock were slick with saliva and come and god, Thomas _wished_ he could preserve the scene forever in a photograph. Or perhaps an oil painting - it was certainly worthy of one.

“Thomas,” Jimmy said, and reached out, gesturing for Thomas to lie in his arms. Thomas picked up his discarded undershirt and mopped most of the mess off Jimmy before flopping into his arms. They lay silently for a while, Jimmy’s fingers teasing through Thomas’s hair, until Thomas had to lean up on one elbow so he could pepper Jimmy’s face with kisses.

“Oi, that tickles,” he chuckled, sleepily kissing Thomas on the mouth to interrupt the barrage. “Was that? Did you?” he started, seemingly as good at talking about sex as he was about feelings.

“It was and I did,” Thomas teased, “very much.”

Jimmy gave him a smile which morphed into a yawn. “Sleep now,” he said and turned onto his side so Thomas could slot in behind him in the bed.

“Jimmy?” Thomas said, arranging the blankets over both their naked bodies.

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

A sleepy noise of approval then; “Good. I love you too. Now shut up and let me sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I’m a year or two early with the Terry’s chocolate apple but 🤷🏻


	3. Christmas Day, 1925

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter hits prompt 25: Christmas Spirit - “Let’s all go around the table and say one thing we’re thankful for...character A, you start.”

It was still dark when Jimmy woke, but it was the middle of winter and the sun didn’t even consider showing its face until around eight in the morning, so that was no surprise. The rest of the household would be awake way before then - well, the downstairs lot at least. Thomas was a snoring weight behind him, his body wrapped around Jimmy, warm and soft and comforting. Jimmy rolled over so he could peer at Thomas in the orange-hued light of the one lamp they’d accidentally left on when they fell asleep. Thomas stirred a little at the movement and rearranged his arm possessively around Jimmy’s waist in his sleep - for some reason that, of all things, made Jimmy want to burst into ridiculous tears.

He blinked and squeezed his jaw tight until it passed. Thomas looked older - greyer at the temples, the scruff of stubble on his chin and jaw also dotted with grey. It suited him well, as did the softness that had developed around his middle. He was beautiful and perfect and Jimmy loved him more than was sensible. But then he’d never been very sensible anyway.

Jimmy took Thomas’s hand, slack with sleep, and held it between his own, then brought it up to his face so he could examine the awful, terrible thing Thomas had inflicted on his own wrist. It was a precise line, cut with determination and a sharp, stropped razor. He’d truly meant to end himself then.

Guilt and terror rolled through Jimmy and he had to quickly and carefully extract himself from the bed, pushing a pillow into Thomas’s arms to stop him from waking. He splashed water from the nightstand on his face but alas, it did little to quell the sudden nausea and he threw up right there, into the bowl, his repeated retching probably loud enough to wake the dead, let alone Thomas.

“Jimmy?” Thomas said, sitting up and clicking on another lamp. “You alright?”

“No,” Jimmy said. He turned to face Thomas, still completely naked, and was met with two grey, petrified eyes staring across the room at him. Thomas’s face was a map of worry, his brows drawn together, his lips a white line.

“You’re disgusted then - at this - us?” Thomas croaked, barely able to get the words out. He looked as if he was about to break into a thousand shards, like a smashed mirror where the pieces hadn’t yet fallen from the frame but would be sent flying from the slightest knock.

He thought Jimmy had been sick because of what they’d done _together_ and it broke Jimmy’s heart that the world - himself included - had filled Thomas with such disgust for himself that he immediately expected it of others.

“No Thomas, that’s not it at all,” Jimmy said and crossed the room to climb back into bed. He pressed himself into Thomas and the under-butler sagged against him in relief. “Last night - well, this morning if you wanna be arsey about it - was the best of my life. I promise you that Thomas.”

Then something unexpected happened - Thomas broke into a fit of almost hysterical crying, his fist pushed into his mouth to muffle the sound in a move that looked much too practiced for Jimmy’s liking.

“Hey, oh Thomas,” Jimmy said, not very adept at comfort, and wrapped both arms around Thomas’s shaking body. Of course, he knew Thomas was unhappy and hurting, but the man was so bloody good at pretending, it hadn’t seemed as bad as how Baxter had described it in her letter. If Thomas hadn’t the scars to prove it, Jimmy would have found the whole story beyond belief. Because _his_ Thomas - the one he’d had to leave behind on the god-awful morning after the fire - he was _bold_ and _proud_ and thought much too highly of himself to ever consider ending his own life. It seemed as though Thomas had forgotten how to be unashamedly himself. 

Jimmy meant to rectify that, however long it took.

As Thomas shook in his arms, his tears wetting Jimmy’s neck, he realised then the depth of how badly Thomas still felt. Dangerously so perhaps - that had been missed by Baxter and the others. They all seemed to think he was on the up but - well, this didn’t seem like up. It seemed like perhaps he’d crawled ten feet away from rock bottom and just laid back down in a slightly different ditch.

“I’d cut me arm off if it’s stop you hurtin’,” Jimmy said, “me left one an’ all.”

“Then you wouldn’t be able to play piano for me,” Thomas said between sniffles.

“Ha! Or fix up gramophones no more. Be worth it though.”

Thomas looked up at him with red eyes. “I’m a ruin Jimmy, I don’t want to ruin you too.”

“Pfft,” Jimmy blew a raspberry in Thomas’s face and the under-butler blinked, shocked. “Bollocks. You’re ill is what and ill people can get better. You’re not ruined or broken or whatever shite you keep on sayin’ to yourself to keep you all mopey. You can get better. An’ I’ll help you - I’m in this for good. Didn’t you pay attention to me letter last night?”

Thomas frowned and looked at Jimmy like he was some sort of genius. Which was nonsense of course. He was an idiot next to Thomas.

“I - I think I needed to hear that,” Thomas said. “As unpleasant as it was.”

“I’m not here to pander to ya,” Jimmy pushed Thomas’s hair back from his forehead. “I’m here to love you and take care of you. Sometimes that means I ‘ave to tell you straight I s’pose, but it’s only ‘cause I love you.”

Thomas nodded, bashful.

“An’ I were throwin’ up in your nightstand due to the wine I drank here and the half-bottle of whiskey I drank before I came, on no supper. And—” he paused, wanting to lie but knowing if this was going to work he couldn’t keep lying all the damn time, “because I was ashamed of meself. Not for last night or us, but for leavin’ you in the first place and not bein’ here when you needed me.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, fuckin’ _oh_. That business with Anstruther was stupid.”

“Very.”

“I can’t make good decisions ‘bout her,” Jimmy admitted. “She got in me head from the first moment I met her when I was just eighteen and thought I knew everythin’. I didn’t know shite though and she saw through me like a bloody window. She messed me head up so much I didn’t think I _could_ love anyone - she twisted up what love was and made it - she made it _wrong_ , so that I didn’t know how to do it properly. Until you. You taught me how.”

Thomas gave a very self-deprecating snort. “Ah yes, tell me what the great romantic Thomas Barrow has taught you about love.”

Jimmy brought Thomas’s left hand up to his mouth and kissed his knuckles, the twisted scar tissue at the centre of his palm, then the two inches of raised red on his inner wrist.

“That when you love someone you’d dive head-first into a fight for them. That you wouldn’t hear a bad word said about ‘em, even if they did deserved it. That you’d lie and cheat to protect ‘em, if you had to. That you’d share everythin’ - even your last cig with ‘em. That their happiness would be so important you’d do whatever it took to help them, even if it meant your own happiness was forfeit in the process,” he thought of Thomas’s pained look as he’d helped Jimmy into Anstruther’s bed. “That love’s not rational or sensible or conditional but - but bigger than anythin’ and more important and—” he took a shaky breath, overwrought, “—that it’s worth riskin’ everythin’ for.”

“Jimmy,” Thomas breathed, and then they were kissing again, hands everywhere, Jimmy very aware he’d thrown up not ten minutes earlier and probably tasted disgusting, but he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop, not ever, and he was unfathomably angry that they lived in a world where anyone thought what they were doing was wrong.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say so much at once,” Thomas said eventually, “not about real things at any rate. You could always talk bollocks for England.”

Jimmy huffed a laugh; “It’s all part of me charm mate, the patter.”

“Charm, is that what you call it?”

“Worked on you didn’t it?”

Thomas smiled at him then, a proper smile, the sort that made Jimmy’s heart swoop about inside him like it had come untethered, and said; “Yeah, it did.”

They managed to keep their hands off each other long enough for them to both get washed and dressed to a respectable standard - although Jimmy had to make a mad, gown-clad dash to the bathroom first to clean out Thomas’s basin. Jimmy was already dressed and busy using Thomas’s pomade to coif his hair - Thomas was in his livery trousers shirt and waistcoat, but his collar was undone, his white tie hanging around his neck. He was fiddling with his watch chain, unthreading it from his ever-present pewter watch and faffing about with something.

“ _Watch_ are you doing?” Jimmy smirked and Thomas snorted a laugh.

“That’s terrible,” he groaned.

“You better _watch_ how you talk to me y’know, or else you’ll _tick_ me off and then you’ll find it’s _time_ to apologise if you keep _winding_ me up.”

“That’s - Lordy, please don’t tell me I’ve fallen for someone who makes bad puns.”

“No, you’ve fallen for someone who makes very funny puns, actually.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Look,” he held out the watch chain for Jimmy to inspect, and down where the fob should be attached hung Jimmy’s dad’s wedding ring. “I uh, well, I can’t _wear_ it - that’ll raise far too many questions, but this way I can always have it with me.”

Jimmy crossed the room and pressed his lips to Thomas’s.

“What was that for?” Thomas smiled.

“Do I need a reason?”

Thomas shook his head, still smiling. “Oh!” he said suddenly, “I never gave you your gift!” He went to his closet and pulled out a very smartly wrapped box, much more precise than Jimmy’s sloppy effort. “Merry Christmas Jimmy,” Thomas said, and handed the package to him. It was almost too pretty to open, but Jimmy would freely admit, at least to himself, that he had the patience of a five year old, and thusly he tore the paper off, balled it up and chucked it at Thomas’s head. Thomas sighed and deposited it into the bin.

Inside the box were several cartons of cigarettes, which made Jimmy grin as Thomas obviously thought he was very funny. There was also a smaller box, one of those nice heavy-weight cardboard ones you always get if you buy links or a tie pin. Jimmy opened it and what was inside was better than either of those; a particularly lovely silver-plated Zippo lighter. Jimmy picked it up and held it in his hand - it was heavy and cool in his palm and far too nice a thing for Jimmy to inevitably lose one day. He flipped it over to find his initials had been engraved on the back.

“Thomas,” he said, “it’s perfect, thank you,” and thumbed it open and closed with a satisfying click. “Give us a smoke will ya, so I can test it out like.”

Thomas gave him a look - the sort that made hallboys piss themselves. “You’ve got a dozen packs there you cheeky git, smoke your own bloody cigarettes.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy smirked, “but I haven’t opened them yet. It’s better to smoke the pack what’s already open first. Then we can just - well, share. My pack, your pack - it’s all _ours_ now ain’t it?”

Thomas’s scowl melted into something very soppy. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

After a shared smoke they both finished their ablutions and managed to smuggle Jimmy back downstairs before most of the staff were even awake. Only Daisy was already up and pottering around the kitchens.

“Put the kettle on would ya?” Jimmy said and the cook did a double take.

“Jimmy? What are you doin’ here at this hour?” she frowned.

“Jimmy’s an early riser, aren’t you?” Thomas drawled and Jimmy couldn’t hide his smirk at the double meaning.

He stood inappropriately close to Thomas and said; “Better than an early finisher.”

Thomas snorted a laugh and Daisy looked between them, confused. Suddenly the penny dropped and she flushed pink and grinned.

“S’nice to hear you laugh Mr Barrow,” Daisy said, still beaming, “we don’t hear it often no more.”

“I haven’t had much to laugh about,” Thomas replied, which was uncharacteristically frank of him.

“I hope you’ll have more to be happy about from now on then?” she said, eyeing Jimmy.

Jimmy caught Thomas’s eye and they both smiled. “Yeah Daisy,” Thomas nodded, “I think I will.”

After a breakfast in which he spent more time watching Thomas eat, and imagining Thomas’s mouth all over various parts of his body, than actually eating himself, Jimmy spent a rather boring and lazy morning watching everyone else run around like blue-arsed flies.

He drank about ten cups of tea, smoked several of _their_ cigarettes - which was an excuse to use his new, flashy lighter, thank you very much - and read yesterday’s paper as slowly as possible. He was going to attempt the crossword like he always did, but found it had already been mostly completed in Thomas’s neat handwriting. There were two clues left undone; ten across which was obviously Paris - Thomas must be slipping if he’d missed that one - and seventeen down, which Jimmy also knew to be _Ferd_ , the real name of the bloody brilliant jazz pianist _Jelly Roll Morton_.

“You finished it,” Thomas said, pausing as he passed through the servant’s hall. “Couldn’t get those two for the life of me.”

Jimmy grinned up at him and said; “Seems like we’re meant for each other, don’t it?”

“Yes, it does rather.”

* * *

Downstairs Christmas dinner rolled around soon enough and everyone gathered around the table. Mr Carson gave a quieting harrumph and said; “As it’s the season of counting our blessings, I propose we all go around the table and say one thing we’re thankful for,” he looked around for a suitable target and everyone staunchly avoided eye contact with the butler. Jimmy winced when his gaze settled on Thomas. “Mr Barrow, why don’t you start?”

Everyone glared at Carson for the most inappropriate choice of person possible, but if he noticed he didn’t let on. Thomas stared at the tablecloth and his bottom lip actually bloody _trembled_.

“I’ll start!” Jimmy declared, much too loudly and with far too much mirth. “I’m grateful for...er,” perhaps he hadn’t thought this through, “...for _love_ ,” he said finally, with the biggest grin he could summon. He let his knee press against Thomas’s under the table. “Because that’s the most important thing in the world, ain’t it? Everythin’ else just sort of works out if you’ve got love.”

Carson didn’t look like he agreed.

“Have you finally got a sweetheart then Jimmy?” Daisy said, almost as if it were an impossible feat if he had. Andy was gazing at her as if she was Theda Bara rather than a dowdy little greasy-haired undercook.

“I have actually,” Jimmy smirked - Thomas glared at him from the corner of his eye. “A right cracker an’ all, all jet-black hair an’ blue eyes an’ red lips - a proper good looker.”

“James!” Carson warned, his face apoplectic, “That’s hardly appropriate talk for over Christmas luncheon.”

Anna was positively grinning, her eyes darting between Thomas’s red cheeks and Jimmy’s cheeky smile. “Well I think it’s lovely,” she said, “that you’ve finally found the right _person_.”

”Took you long enough,” Bates muttered and Jimmy gave him his most unpleasant look.

“As do I,” said Mrs Hughes knowingly. Blimey, Thomas was going to kill him if they’d all figured it out.

“Yes, well,” Carson cleared his throat, “if you have found someone willing to put up with _you_ , then I suppose that is something to be thankful for.”

Jimmy pouted but couldn’t bring himself to really be cross, especially when he saw a smirk pull at one corner of Thomas’s mouth.

They continued around the table, each person naming one thing they were thankful for, until only Thomas remained.

“I’m thankful for...” he paused and swallowed hard - Jimmy could actually feel him slightly trembling beside him. “I’m thankful I’m still here,” he finished. Those who knew about Thomas’s attempt to take his own life would understand his meaning - the others would likely think he was talking about the looming loss of his job.

Carson, of course, managed to look like he was less than thankful for it, and said, thoughtlessly; “I imagine not for very much longer though.”

“Mr Carson!” Mrs Hughes chastised, apparently outraged, and Carson at least had the decency to look somewhat shamefaced. Miss Baxter’s hand shot up to her mouth and her eyes went wide.

Thomas was very still, his hands clasped in his lap, his eyes staring down at the exposed half-inch of his cuffs. Jimmy felt a sudden rage boil inside his stomach that even after everything, Carson could still be so unkind. Didn’t he know how Thomas suffered? How he was barely holding himself together? How saying something so awful could push him over the edge. He stood up without warning, the squeal of his chair against the floor earth-shatteringly loud in the tense quiet of the room.

“I thought,” Jimmy started, trembling slightly in his anger, “the butler were s’posed to set an example in good manners?”

“James,” Mrs Hughes said calmly, “I don’t think Mr Carson intended to hurt—”

“That’s it though isn’t it?” Jimmy cut her off. “None of you think he’s capable of being hurt, even now, after everything. You don’t bleedin’ _think_! You treat him like he’s not got a heart at all, but you’re all so bloody wrong about that. He’s got the biggest heart of all of you and—” he took a shaking breath, “—he’s better than the lot of you. He’s the best man I know. An’ he’s handin’ in his notice so he can be away from your bloody thoughtless barbs once and for all, Mr Carson.”

Silence. Jimmy looked down to see Thomas staring up at him in wonder, so he put his hand on Thomas’s shoulder and squeezed. “He’s comin’ to run the gramophone place in York, with me.” He wanted to add _‘and I love him and we’re going to fuck in every bloody room’,_ but thought better of it.

Daisy looked to be having some sort of revelation - she gaped at Jimmy then at Thomas, then back at Jimmy again and finally said, warmly; “Well said, Jimmy. I hope you’ll both be happy together. Err - running the shop together, that is.”

“Thank you Daisy,” Jimmy said and glared at the rest of the table expectantly until a chorus of _“oh that’s lovely”_ and _“marvellous news”_ and _“you’ll do well together”_ broke out around them and Jimmy felt he could finally breathe normally again. He retook his seat and Thomas’s hand immediately found his knee under the tabletop.

“That was,” he shook his head, his dark hair falling from its usual pomaded neatness, “mad. But bloody brilliant. Sums you up really.”

“Mad but bloody brilliant, eh?” Jimmy grinned and covered Thomas’s hand with his own, “Sounds ‘bout right that.”

Carson cleared his throat and the chatter around the table died down again. “Mr Barrow,” he said and Jimmy felt Thomas go rigid beside him, so he curled his fingers around his gloved hand. “I assure you I meant no offence. And I am certain you will make a very capable manager. If there’s one thing I can say about you, it’s that you’ve always done your job to a high standard.”

That was as close as you could get to Carson singing your bloody praises - everyone’s stunned silence seemed to indicate they knew the weight of his words too.

“Well,” Mrs Hughes said, “now we’ve gotten that awkwardness over and done with, let’s try to just enjoy ourselves, shall we?”

Dinner was served, wine was poured, and crackers were pulled - Jimmy forced Thomas to wear a stupid paper hat and he scowled dramatically, despite letting Jimmy place it jauntily on his head. If they sat too close together for proprietary and touched too much to be considered normal, well, either no one noticed or they didn’t care about it if they did.

After a fair few glasses of wine Jimmy felt sloppy and giddily happy, so soon as they were released from the table, he took Thomas by the arm and led him out into the yard. It had started to snow, tiny flakes of pearlescent white gathering on the table and the tops of the crates that lay here and there around the yard.

They leaned against the wall in their usual spot and Jimmy lit two cigarettes with his prized possession.

“You like it then,” Thomas said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“Bloody love it,” Jimmy grinned, “makes me feel all suave like a film star.”

Thomas gave a snort. “It’ll take more than a fancy lighter to make you suave, Jimmy Kent.”

Jimmy thumped him on the arm. “Thought I was pretty fuckin’ suave back in there when I defended your honour to Carson.”

Thomas’s gaze was fixed somewhere over in the bare-branched trees, the cig dangling from his lips. A few snowflakes had been caught up in his dark hair, like tiny stars in the night sky - he was absolutely beautiful and Jimmy _loved_ him.

“No one has ever said things like that before - or stood up for me - and I didn’t know whether to punch you or cry or laugh like a bleedin’ idiot or—” he finally turned his grey eyes on Jimmy, a smile on those unfairly red lips “—I can see I’m going to spend me days getting us out of the scrapes you get us into.”

Jimmy smiled in return; “Would you want it any other way?”

“No, I bloody wouldn’t.”

* * *

Despite Jimmy wanting to stay in the moment forever, the day galloped on around them like it was desperate to reach the finish line. The upstairs lot sent the gramophone down so they could play carols - Daisy and Andy started a very ungainly waltz around the room, then Molesley, who’d come up to join them for supper, pulled Baxter up to dance. Anna and Bates did an approximation of dancing, but with his bum leg and her rounded belly it was more of a sway-on-the-spot than a waltz. Mrs Hughes even managed to strong-arm Carson into taking a turn of the room with her.

The unfairness of it all pressed in on Jimmy without warning. Thomas and he were undoubtedly the best dancers there - and the best looking couple at that - but they’d never be able to dance in public. Not without getting arrested at any rate.

“I wish we could,” Thomas said, as if he’d read Jimmy’s mind.

“So do I,” Jimmy replied and settled for resting his shoulder against Thomas’s. Thomas leaned into him and Jimmy dared to let his fingers curl into Thomas’s palm so they were almost holding hands.

Mrs Patmore sidled over to where Thomas and Jimmy were stationed by the piano and said; “You can still hear the music down in the kitchen you know.”

“Do want us to turn it down?” Thomas asked.

“No no,” she said, frizzy ginger curls bouncing about merrily, “it’s nice. The works all done for now and the kitchen is empty, so it’s not bothering no one. It wouldn’t matter if someone decided to dance in there, ‘cause there’d be no one to see ‘em.”

And she _winked_ at Jimmy before wandering off.

“What the bloody hell was — _oh_ ,” Jimmy said, finally catching on. He took Thomas’s hand and led him away, down the corridor and into the kitchen. True to Mrs Patmore’s word the music, though muffled, could still be heard and there was no one to be seen. He pulled Thomas close, so they were chest-to-chest, and held him as if he meant to lead.

“Jimmy, what do you think you’re doing?” Thomas asked.

“Dancing.”

“Yeah, I got that bit. What makes you think you get to lead though?”

Jimmy pinched his hip so hard Thomas yelped. “I only know how to lead.”

“Well I haven’t exactly been waltzed by a bloke before neither.”

“Then it’ll be your first time, won’t it,” Jimmy poked his tongue out. “I think I’ve done enough first times this week already.”

Thomas conceded. “I can see this is how the rest of my life is going to go, isn’t it?”

“If you know what’s good for you.”

So Jimmy started their waltz around the kitchen, but Thomas tried to sabotage it by being deliberately awkward, causing them to keep bumping into the table and the counters.

“You’re bloody ruinin’ the moment!” Jimmy hissed, “I’m tryin’ to bleedin’ romance ya and this is what I get. It’s like dancin’ with Buster Keaton.”

Thomas snickered. “Well maybe you should let me lead—”

“Shut it and dance before I change my mind.”

Thomas bent his head and kissed Jimmy on his cheek, right there in the kitchen, then finally let himself be swayed in Jimmy’s arms.

“You’re full of surprises you are,” Thomas sighed happily.

“Good. I’d hate to get borin’ and predictable.”

* * *

It was late and the servant’s hall was becoming emptier by the minute. Jimmy knew he should go home before he was too tired and too drunk to drive the thirty minutes back to York, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to leave Thomas ever again, not even for a night. He yawned, his paper hat slipping low over his forehead, and sipped at his punch.

“Jimmy,” Thomas said - he was half-gone himself, a band of pink running over his nose and highlighting his cheekbones, “you’re tired. Go home to bed.”

“M’not that tired,” he said and a traitorous yawn escaped as if to prove him wrong. “Don’t wanna.”

“You can hardly sleep in that chair.”

“Can. S’comfy.” He closed his eyes, warm and full and half-asleep already.

Thomas sighed. “You’re impossible, you are.”

“What’s this then?” said a familiar Scottish lilt. Jimmy opened his eyes - Mrs Hughes was looking at him with amusement, the telltale merry pink tinting her cheeks as well.

“Jimmy doesn’t want to drive home,” Thomas said, “he’s had one too many really and he’s tired.”

Mrs Hughes frowned. “I’d say he’s had more than _one_ too many by the look of him.”

“M’not tight,” Jimmy said. It was a lie.

“Well, _tight_ or no, you can stay here tonight. There’s plenty spare rooms on the servant’s corridor nowadays,” she said. “Mr Barrow, I assume you can organise a bed for Jimmy?”

Blotto as he was Thomas didn’t even try to hide his grin. “I’m sure I can manage.”

Mrs Hughes leaned in conspiratorially and said; “Just don’t let Mr Carson catch wind of it. And for pity’s sake, keep your voices down for the sake of Andy and the hall boys.”

They dutifully waited for everyone else to disappear off to their various cottages and bedrooms before climbing the stairs, hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic will earn its M rating in the next chapter 😉 
> 
> Also I’ve drink a whole bottle on champagne today so I’m very sorry if this makes less sense that normal.


	4. Boxing Day 1925

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. This was supposed to be published on Boxing Day 2020 but as you can see that did NOT work out 😂

Thomas had barely gotten the bedroom door shut before Jimmy was crowding him against it, his lips and hands all over him.

“I thought you were tired,” Thomas said, between kisses.

“I am but—” he stopped to removed Thomas’s jacket for him with eager hands “not too tired for this. Never.”

Thomas couldn’t help but smile. It was mad - like he’d fallen into some parallel world where up was down and down was up. Even the other staff seemed to be, well, _happy_ for him. Accepting almost. That was a new sensation. Even Carson had been pleasant, once Jimmy had told him off of course. Now that _was_ something.

Jimmy’s hands stilled from their task of undoing Thomas’s buttons and he gazed up at him. “Are you alright, love?”

Thomas was surprised by the endearment, but then Jimmy was _tight_. “Yes, today was just...” he grasped for the right word but was too tired and tipsy to find it, “a lot.” That was a good enough description. Life in general had been _a lot_ recently.

Jimmy nodded. He slipped Thomas’s shirt off and let it drop to the floor, then reached up and linked his hands behind Thomas’s neck, pulling him down for a tender kiss.

“I’m not fool enough to think I can magic away what’s happened to you in a week,” Jimmy said, his gaze soft with affection. “I can see how you hurt still love - it’s writ in your very eyes, even now. So don’t say you’re fine if you’re not. Don’t pretend. You don’t have to with me. Not ever.”

Thomas had to swallow down the lump in his throat. “Jimmy I,” he didn’t know how to say it. How he felt was almost ineffable. “I’m not alright - not really. I’m here and - and some days that’s ok, and some days it isn’t. Sometimes I think about what I did and it terrifies me. Sometimes I’m just disappointed it didn’t work. Sometimes I want to do it again - it’s like someone’s sewn a thread into my chest and they’re always trying to pull me towards it.”

“Oh,” Jimmy said, his hands trembling a little against Thomas’s neck. “Thomas I’m - I don’t want you to - please don’t leave me, not now.”

Thomas leaned his forehead against Jimmy’s. “I’m not planning to. I don’t really want that, I don’t think. Most of the time I want to be alive it’s just some days it’s harder to remember why.”

“I hope I’m one more reason to stay.”

“A very big one.”

Jimmy nodded, a small motion Thomas felt rather than saw. “When the days are good ones well, that’s dandy innit? But if it’s a bad day - just, just tell me. Just say _‘Jimmy I feel like shite’_ an’ I’ll be there - I’ll hold you like this—” he wrapped his arms around Thomas’s back, his palms flat and warm against the cotton of his undershirt, his fingers spread as wide as possible, “an’ I’ll tell you how much I love you an’ that you’re the best man I’ve ever known and that my life would be right bollocks without you. An’ I’ll kiss you like this—” he threaded one hand into Thomas’s hair, the other still pressed against his back, and leaned up on his toes to kiss Thomas - soft and slow and lovely. Jimmy broke away and continued; “An’ then I’ll take you to bed and love you how I should’ve all those years ago, how I love you now.”

Jimmy pulled off Thomas’s undershirt, then slid his trousers over his hips and down to his ankles, his hands gentle. He lovingly removed Thomas’s shoes and socks and garters, then his underwear. Finally he removed Thomas’s glove and paused to kiss the twisted well of scar tissue right in the centre of the palm. It wasn’t lost on Thomas that all his scars were self-inflicted - the physical ones at least.

Jimmy took Thomas’s hand and led him over to the bed, pushing him back against the pillows. He removed his own clothes with much less care, ripping the shirt over his head still half-buttoned and kicking his way out of his trousers. When he was buck naked he climbed into Thomas’s lap and kissed his forehead, each cheek, the tip of his nose and then his chin. Jimmy laid feather-soft kisses down one side of Thomas’s neck and then the other, then dipped under his chin to mouth at his Adam’s apple.

“Jimmy,” Thomas breathed, overawed.

“Shh,” Jimmy said softly, “let me, please.”

“Alright.” Thomas let his head fall back against the wall, his skin singing where Jimmy’s lips had trailed over it.

Jimmy resumed his course and kissed first along Thomas’s right arm, down his bicep and along his forearm until he reached the scar on Thomas’s wrist - he paid it particular attention, laying maddeningly soft kisses all over it before moving on to his palm and then his knuckles and finally each finger. Jimmy repeated the whole process with Thomas’s left arm and Thomas thought he might cry - it was the most tender and loving thing he’d ever experienced.

Jimmy leaned in and pressed his lips against Thomas’s, his fingers ghosting up and down Thomas’s sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Jimmy’s lips moved downwards again, trailing open-mouthed kisses down Thomas’s chest until he took one nipple into his mouth and sucked, his tongue coming up to press against it. Thomas gave a shuddering breath and his already half-hard cock twitched up in interest. The fingers of Jimmy’s left hand raked through the thatch of rough hair on Thomas’s chest and he tugged, gently. Thomas moaned and Jimmy pulled his lips off Thomas’s nipple with a wet pop, only to latch them on to the other one.

Thomas tangled one hand into Jimmy’s golden curls and let the other wander over his shoulder. Jimmy scraped his teeth over Thomas’s now-sensitive nipple and he hissed, desire starting to pull at him, his hands now eagerly grabbing at Jimmy.

But Jimmy was apparently on a mission to map out Thomas’s entire body with his mouth. He kissed his way down Thomas’s stomach then over his hips and worshipped each thigh and calf with his lips and tongue. Finally he bent his head and kissed a line along Thomas’s erect cock, lapping at the end before sucking the head into his mouth. Thomas groaned and one hand flew to his forehead, dragging his own ruined hair back from his eyes so he could better watch Jimmy slide his mouth up and down Thomas’s length.

“Jimmy,” he gasped, “that’s - you’re - _Jesus Christ_.”

Jimmy chuckled and Thomas felt it reverberate through his cock. He released Thomas’s member long enough to smirk and say; “That’s me, the bleedin’ messiah - but Jimmy will do well enough, love,” before taking the entirety of Thomas’s cock into his mouth. He gagged a little at first but soon regained his self-control, his tongue pressing against Thomas’s slit.

Thomas’s eyes kept threatening to slip shut with pleasure but he didn’t want to miss a moment - not when Jimmy was sucking at him as if he were intent on devouring him and looking up at Thomas with love written all over his face. He moaned - it was _glorious_. Thomas held on to the bed frame behind him for support and watched, mesmerised, as Jimmy wrapped a hand around the base of his cock so he could stroke Thomas in time with the bobbing of his head.

“Jimmy - Jimmy love that’s - please, stop!” Thomas said - it was one of the most beautiful, erotic moments of his life and it was about to end abruptly if Jimmy didn’t release him.

Jimmy pulled away, saliva and pre-cum streaked down his chin, his lips swollen and red. “What’s wrong darlin?”

“Nothing’s _wrong_ ,” Thomas smiled, “just - it’s so good I’ll finish if you keep that up.”

Jimmy gave a wicked grin. “Well Mr Barrow, that’s the idea.” He crawled up Thomas’s body and straddled him, settling on his lap, his own straining cock leaking against Thomas’s stomach, and kissed Thomas filthily - Thomas could taste himself on Jimmy’s tongue and it made his hips jerk up off the bed. Jimmy pressed his lips against Thomas’s ear and said; “I want you to take me now, Thomas. Make love to me, please me darlin’.”

Thomas had to close his eyes and take a deep breath. “Jimmy I - I don’t think you know what your asking for.”

“I do,” Jimmy said, “your cock, inside me.”

“Jesus,” Thomas breathed, “you’re forward, aren’t you?”

“I’ve never exactly been shy, have I?”

Thomas snorted. “No, not really.” Jimmy was looking at him with a mix of fondness and desire, and it filled Thomas’s stomach with a thousand dancing butterflies.

“Please Thomas,” Jimmy said, pouting, “please take me. I want to be yours - forever.”

Thomas nodded - he admittedly didn’t need much convincing, not with Jimmy naked on his lap and practically begging for it.

Jimmy grinned and hopped off the bed. “D’ya have somethin’ to err,” he pulled a face, his mouth twisting, “y’know, make things _easier_?”

“Petrol Jelly - in the bureau,” Thomas managed to say - watching a naked and erect Jimmy rummage through his things was surreal.

“Aha!” Jimmy said, victorious. He slicked two of his own fingers with the petrol jelly and Thomas was treated to the absolutely debauched view of Jimmy bending over and impaling himself on his own fingers with a grunt.

“Christ,” Thomas moaned, “Jimmy you - that’s so - where did you learn to do _that_?”

Jimmy fixed him with a wicked grin. “It’s not the first time I’ve had me fingers up there whilst I think about you.”

That nearly finished Thomas off. Jimmy made quick work of himself then climbed back onto Thomas’s lap, lining himself up and reaching behind himself to guide Thomas’s cock to his arse. He breathed in once, deeply, and sank down onto Thomas in one movement, hissing.

“Jimmy love, _oh_!” Thomas said - it was incredible, having Jimmy’s hot, tightness all around him. Jimmy draped his hands over Thomas’s shoulders and lazily rolled his hips, sending sparks of electricity through Thomas, and leaned up to kiss him filthily on the mouth. They rocked together, kissing, Thomas’s hands trailing up and down Jimmy’s back. It had been so long since he’d been inside another man - so long it almost felt like the first time.

“S’good, having you inside me,” Jimmy breathed, “it’s like you belong there.”

“Where did you learn to do _that_?” Thomas said - he almost didn’t want to know, but this was so far removed from the Jimmy he remembered the question was begging to be asked.

Jimmy paused, his cock heavy and hard and leaving a wet smear on Thomas’s stomach. “I read a book. For you.”

Well, that raised yet more questions, but when Jimmy rolled his hips again and moaned wantonly Thomas couldn’t string a thought together long enough to worry about it.

“Didn’t know you could - _ah christ_ \- read.”

Jimmy fixed him with a withering look. “Don’t insult me when you’ve got your cock inside me. Not if you want to have it inside me ever again.” And he rolled his hips again to drive the point home. “It were mostly pictures anyway,” he grinned.

They rocked together, Jimmy making a sort of lazy circling motion with his hips that was driving Thomas insane with need. He made to touch Jimmy’s cock, but his hand was swatted away.

“No, this is about you,” Jimmy breathed, his cheeks painted pink, “I can wait.”

“I want to.” It wasn’t a lie - touching Jimmy would deepen his own pleasure too. “I’ll enjoy it.”

Jimmy nodded. “If it’s what you want love, it’s yours.” He fixed Thomas with a heavy look. “I’m yours.”

That made Thomas jerk up off the bed, thrusting into Jimmy. He stroked Jimmy firmly but slowly, timing his strokes with the roll of Jimmy’s hips.

“I’m yours,” Jimmy repeated, panting, “I’m yours and you are mine and I love you. I love you Thomas. I _love_ you.”

Jimmy saying those words like a prayer pushed Thomas towards completion more than the quickening motion of his hips and the heaviness of Jimmy’s own straining prick in his hand.

“Tell me again,” Thomas breathed.

“I love you, only you, always you.” Jimmy leaned forwards, kissed him sloppily, and came in a hot spurt between them. The way Jimmy’s body clenched around him and how his rhythm devolved into frenzied trembling pulled Thomas’s climax out of him like a sword from a sheathe; quick, smooth, unexpected. He spilled within Jimmy with a moan, his head falling back against the wall, his whole body alight with pleasure. Jimmy lay his forehead against Thomas’s shoulder and held him through his orgasm, then kissed and mouthed at his neck.

“You’re so beautiful like that,” he said, “fucked out.” Then, somewhat hesitantly; “Was that alright?”

Thomas forced his head up so he could look Jimmy in the eye - he was _nervous_. “More than alright, love. Bloody _biblical_.”

Jimmy’s face broke into a satisfied grin. “I’ve never - y’know, done that.”

“With a man?”

“No with a _badger_ ,” Jimmy teased, “‘course I meant with a man.” He rolled off to the side and shuffled down under the covers. “Come and hold me, won’t you?”

Thomas obliged - he didn’t care that the bed was too small or that the sheets would have to be changed again in the morning. He was here, with Jimmy, who had just ridden his cock and told him he loved him.

It struck him then that he was _content_ \- an unfamiliar feeling to Thomas in general, but more so of late. But instead of being buoyed up by it he felt a sudden dread form, heavy in his stomach like he’d swallowed a draft of lead.

Jimmy was warm and smiling at him brightly and Thomas was overwhelmed with the urge to push him away, to tell him to run like at the Thirsk fair, to save himself. Not from robbers though, but from Thomas, who’d rob Jimmy of his joy and youth until he was as old and pathetic as he’d become.

Thomas couldn’t help it - he gave over to tears, his hands pressed into his eyes. Jimmy’s arms came up around him, pulling him into an embrace.

“Oh Thomas, whassamatter love?”

Thomas shook his head - it was stupid. He had everything he’d ever wanted lying in his arms and still he couldn’t be happy.

“You can tell me anythin’,” Jimmy coaxed, “it won’t stop me lovin’ you y’know.”

“You’re too good for me Jimmy,” Thomas sobbed, “I don’t deserve the likes of you, I don’t.”

“Bollocks,” Jimmy said, “you’re too good for me an’ that’s the truth of it. I’m vain an’ selfish an’ stupid. I act before I think an’ then blame others for it. I say horrible things that I don’t mean and I don’t care who I hurt. I’m a right fuckin’ state I am. I’ve always been a state. But you love me, dontcha? Despite it all?”

Thomas knew he should say _no, I don’_ t and make Jimmy leave so he’d have a chance at being happy. But he couldn’t, as selfish it was. “I love you more than I thought was possible. And not despite all that - because of it. It’s you. All those things are just you.”

Jimmy pulled Thomas’s hands away from his eyes and fixed him with an utterly brilliant smile. “Dontcha get it, Mr Barrow? It’s the same for me. I love everything about you - the good an’ bad an’ everythin’ what’s between. Because it’s you. Taking away summat would be like changing the recipe - it wouldn’t be you no more.”

Thomas couldn’t fault his argument - he’d been trapped by his own damn logic after all.

“How many more times will I have to tell you I love you and I’m never leavin’ before you’ll believe it, eh?” Jimmy said, his thumb stroking Thomas’s cheekbone.

“Always once more, I think.”

Jimmy sighed dramatically. “Then I’ll spend me life sayin’ it. It’s hardly a hardship.”

Not long after they fell asleep, tangled together in the too-small bed, and for once Thomas slept well.

* * *

Jimmy did not miss being woken at six o’bloody clock in the morning. The morning call was one thing he was glad to leave behind when he was unceremoniously booted out of Downton and decided to try for something other than being in service. Anstruther had begged him to come back to her but he wouldn’t. He vowed he’d never be her toy again, no matter what, and it was a promise he’d kept thus far.

Thomas was so knackered he didn’t wake, even when the hall boy came ‘round again ten minutes later. Jimmy watched him sleeping, looking worn and fragile and so utterly beautiful it almost made him give over to tears. He had to get Thomas away from this place before it sucked all the life out of him - maybe if he begged and pleaded Carson wouldn’t make him work out his notice.

“You look like you’re thinking,” Thomas said, rubbing his eyes. “That’s a dangerous game.”

Jimmy snorted. “Lucky I don’t do it too often then. Unlike some.”

Thomas smirked and for a moment he looked like the old Thomas. Jimmy hoped one day he’d go back to looking like that; smug, superior, self-satisfied. He missed it.

“You’ve missed the call,” Jimmy said, “you’ll be late.”

“Can’t say I care much,” Thomas yawned, stretching. The blanket slipped down a little, revealing his bare chest. Jimmy couldn’t help but run his fingers through the thatch of dark hair, marvelling at the feel of it.

“None of _that_ or I’ll be even later,” Thomas said and swatted his hand away.

In the end they weren’t all that late down and managed to catch the tail end of breakfast.

“You’re still here I see,” Carson grumbled in Jimmy’s direction, his eyebrows knitted together in irritation. “How much longer can we expect the _pleasure_ of your company?”

Jimmy gave him a nasty smile. “That depends on how long you insist on keeping Mr Barrow here. Seeing as you’ve been so vocal about how desperate you are to be rid of him, perhaps you won’t insist he works out his notice.”

Thomas kept silent but gave Jimmy a warning look.

Carson glared at Jimmy’s rudeness, but seemed to actually be considering it. “I’m sure we can come to a mutually acceptable arrangement.”

Jimmy stared Carson down. He was pleased to find he wasn’t the slightest bit afraid of the old bastard anymore.

“How about we stay until the servant’s ball then Thomas comes home with me?” Jimmy offered. It was a reasonable request.

Carson huffed. “So you want to stay for the party then swan off afterwards?”

Jimmy rolled his eyes theatrically. “I’ll even _help_ , if it makes you feel better.”

“It does _not_ ,” Carson said.

“I’d like to see Lady Edith wed,” Thomas interrupted, “if anyone would care to know my opinion. Seeing as I’ve made most of the arrangements I’d like to see it through.”

Jimmy had to admit he was disappointed Thomas didn’t want to leave as soon as possible. In his head, when he had run through the scenario over and over again, the under-butler had leapt into his arms and Jimmy had carried him off into the sunset as soon as he’d dropped the bomb about the job at the shop. But it almost seemed as if Thomas was stalling their departure.

Perhaps he wasn’t as keen on the whole idea as Jimmy was. Jimmy’s fear must’ve shown unbidden on his irritatingly expressive face - he’d never been able to control it - as Thomas said; “Then I’m more than happy to go with you to the shop.”

“That would be acceptable,” Carson interjected.

Jimmy gave Thomas an appreciative smile. “But I can’t stay here until then. I’ve got the shop to look after and I didn’t bring any clothes or anything. I’ll have to go back for a day or two.”

Thomas gave him a soppy smile, his cheeks dimpling. “I can manage a day or two if we’ve got forever to look forward to after that.”

Carson rolled his eyes and harrumphed. Jimmy laid a hand on Thomas’s arm.

“Forever an’ a day.”

Despite their words Jimmy was loathe to part from Thomas; there was a nagging feeling somewhere in his insides that urged him to stay, and a crawling at the base of his skull that whispered the word over and over in Thomas’s voice. Stay, stay, _stay_.

But even Jimmy was a slave to the practicalities of life and they needed the haven of shop and the flat that came along with it in order to have their happy ever after. It didn’t stop him from loitering in the yard, embracing Thomas for a long moment and risking planting a kiss on the cut of his cheek.

“Jimmy—” Thomas warned, even as he leaned into it.

“I know, not _here_. It’s a ridiculous world where I can’t kiss your cheek without skirting the risk o’prison though.”

“No one ever said life were fair.”

Jimmy nodded. “Not fair, but good sometimes. You make it good, Thomas.”

Thomas ducked his head in that utterly charming, bashful way he did when embarrassed. “You’ll make me blush.”

“Good. And listen,” he took Thomas’s hand and wound their fingers together, “I’ll be back for the servant’s ball. Alright?”

Thomas nodded and squeezed Jimmy’s hand. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

* * *

Jimmy genuinely liked his job, which was a new and unusual sensation. His boss Mr Vickers - _John_ \- was a decent bloke and had sort of taken Jimmy under his wing. Jimmy had gotten a bit squiffy and accidentally revealed the real reason for his move to York was an under-butler called Thomas and John had simply smiled and said _‘I thought you were my sort of bloke but I didn’t know if you’d realised it yet’_ as if he’d known Jimmy all his life instead of a couple of weeks.

Which made everything a lot easier. It had even been John’s idea to bring Thomas in to the business, siting his failing eyesight and arthritic fingers as an excuse when really they both knew the man was giving Jimmy something he wished he’d had himself - a chance to be happy.

Despite liking his job, and the small but comfortable flat that came with it, he opened the back door and trudged up the stairs with a pout; he’d imagined he’d be excitedly shoving Thomas up these stairs and showing him around the next time he was here. He was being a child, that much was obvious even to him; Thomas had waited years for Jimmy, the least he could do was wait a couple of days for the man to tie up his loose ends.

He kicked off his snowy shoes, ate a supper of tea and toast (he really needed to learn to cook _something_ ) and went to bed early - the sooner he went to sleep, the sooner tomorrow would roll around, and then the day after when he could drive back to Downton and his Thomas.

Except he couldn’t sleep. And by the time morning dawned with a near-blizzard, he was grumpy and tired and missing Thomas like some sort of opium addict who has been denied a dose. The day was bound to be slow - the store was officially closed until the new year, but there was a row of gramophones in the back room waiting to be repaired, so he set himself to work at that task and counted down the hours until he could drive back for the servant’s ball.


	5. December 28th, 1925

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay again, I am dumb, yadda yadda.

Jimmy woke on the day of the servant’s ball feeling equal parts exhausted and excited. He’d been foolish to think it would be easy to be apart even for such a short time - two days away from Thomas might as well have been a lifetime. He was almost sick with worry that something might happen to make Thomas doubt - the thought of him crying alone, a fist shoved into his mouth, had invaded his mind and taken up residence. Thomas was delicate still and needed to be treated the way Carson handled the best china - with kid gloves. Jimmy had never been the cautious or tactful type, but for Thomas he’d try. He’d do _anything_. It had been a strange and hard-fought realisation to come to - that he was in love with his best and only friend in the whole wide world - and had taken Baxter’s letter and the knowledge that Thomas had very nearly left him forever to make him acknowledge what he’d secretly, in some sealed-off corner of his mind, known all along.

He’d wasted too much time clinging to a fragile shell of normalcy and he was getting too old and too pissed off with the world to keep pretending anymore. Thomas deserved something good and Jimmy wanted to be the one to give it to him.

The ball wasn’t until the evening and he had a few chores to see to before then, which he set about with gusto. When they were done he even cleared the back yard of the two-foot deep drift of snow that had gathered there, finding it calming to lose himself in the physical, repetitive work and the muffled quiet of York under a blanket of white.

As he shovelled he thought about Thomas and those awful scars at his wrists - and the likely worse ones in his head that had made him do such a dreadful thing. He’d read an article about _depression_ , if that was indeed what Thomas was suffering with, and a lot of the cures sounded a damn sight worse than the condition itself. Though he supposed for someone who was so low, any sort of relief, even oblivion, would seem as tempting as the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, even if it was just as false.

Strange moods were something he was intimately familiar with, even if they had never turned as dark as Thomas’s.

He leaned on his shovel, his back aching and hands burning with cold, and surveyed the now-empty yard with satisfaction. If only clearing the detritus from Thomas’s mind could be as easy. He wondered, vaguely, if he was up to the task of trying - he wanted to be, god only knew, but he’d never been much good at anything. No, this couldn’t be another opportunity he ruined, like all the rest. He had to be the man Thomas deserved. For Thomas.

Chilled to the bone, he retired to his front room and started the tedious job of heating water for a bath. Running, hot water and gloriously deep baths were two things about service he actually missed. He’d spent so long in great houses he’d forgotten the rigmarole involved for most people in something as simple as having a bath. But it wouldn’t do to go the the servant’s ball smelling like sweat and hard work, so he rolled out the tin bath and filled every kettle, pot and pan he had, then put them on the little stove to warm.

As he soaped himself, knees drawn up under his chin, his mind wondered again to Thomas - the man had probably ruined baths for himself. A pity; Jimmy knew Thomas had used to enjoy a good soak with a book and a smoke. In his mind he could picture it perfectly; black hair damp and falling over the white porcelain, one hand dangling over the side with a cig scissored between long fingers, the other holding a book up out of the water - probably Whitman or Elliot or some other brilliant, maudlin bastard.

_“But O heart! heart! heart!_   
_O the bleeding drops of red,_   
_Where on the deck my Captain lies,_   
_Fallen cold and dead.”_

Whitman’s words pushed into his mind unbidden, along with an old memory he didn’t know he had of Thomas reading aloud in the servant’s hall when the rest had long since gone to bed. In an instant he was out of the tub, a pressing need to see Thomas, to hold him in his arms again, seizing him and leading him a merry dance; throwing on the clothes he’d already picked out, quickly teasing his hair into a loose wave and not even bothering to empty the bath, even though he’d regret it later. Before he knew what he was doing he was hooking the keys and thundering down the stairs two at a time.

He half expected the van to refuse to start or the road to be impassible or some other stupid thing that would keep him from Thomas - but no hurdle arose and he was actually entering the grounds of the estate when he took his mind off the road for a mere second as he tried to light a cigarette. Of course, that was the exact moment a deer, one of the many that grazed the lesser-used corners of the estate, decided to dart out in front of him.

“Ah _shite_!” Jimmy exclaimed, his still-unlit cig dropping from between his lips as he swerved to the side to avoid the stupid beast. The van didn’t respond well to being jerked over the snowy edges of the road and Jimmy fought a losing battle with the steering wheel, before the van spun completely out of control, barrelled into a field, then rolled. Jimmy was weightless for a second - long enough to think _‘Sorry Thomas, my love’_ with striking clarity - before he knew nothing.

* * *

Thomas paced the servant’s hall - he was probably fretting unnecessarily. Jimmy was hardly known for his punctuality and he wasn’t even late, nor really. The ball hadn’t started yet and the rest of the staff were still up on the servant’s corridor readying themselves for a rare evening of merriment.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was _wrong_.

Music started drifting down from upstairs - someone had started up the newly-repaired gramophone and of course, that conjured images of Jimmy at the servant’s hall table, blonde hair tumbling over his brow as he bent forwards to examine the machine.

He loitered as long as he could, probably looking like the desperate and lovesick fool he was, before Carson almost physically shoved him up the stairs, breathing fire and threats and something about showing himself grateful for the blessing his Lordship was bestowing on them. He couldn’t bring himself to care - not when his whole body was aching with the need for Jimmy’s arms around him again.

He knew he looked mardy and ridiculous standing off to one side, sulking into his punch, but he couldn’t bring himself to join in. Not even when Daisy fished for a dance or Baxter tried to chat. His mind kept turning over everything that had transpired since Jimmy had reappeared in his life in a whirl of chaos and tousled golden hair. The boy always left such turmoil in his wake, as if Thomas’s life were a neatly ploughed field and Jimmy had thoughtlessly joy-ridden a tractor roughshod all over the seedlings he’d been nurturing since the incident in the bathtub.

Except, of course, the only thing he’d been nurturing since then were the weeds of shame and self-pity and despair, which threatened to strangle anything good he might’ve grown instead. Jimmy might not have completely uprooted those yet but - well, Thomas could almost see something good in his future. A home of his own with Jimmy beside him and a job where, for the most part, he was his own master - it all seemed like something he’d dream about, rather than an almost reality. It was within his grasp if only he’d take a hold of it.

Except Jimmy had stood him up.

As the evening turned to night, and then to the early hours of the morning, Thomas’s veneer cracked - he had to slip away into the library as the tears threatened to fall. Once he’d closed the door on the muffled ruckus of the ongoing party, he immediately broke down, falling to his knees on the plush rug. Jimmy wasn’t coming. The dream had slipped through his fingers. Jimmy had left him again and he wasn’t coming back. And it _would_ kill him. Thomas would make sure of it this time.

“Thomas.” A voice said. Thomas didn’t have to look up, he’d know that sanctimonious tone anywhere. Bates.

“Leave me be Mr Bates,” he said, hating how his voice trembled and how he couldn’t stop the tears from falling. “Just leave me be.”

“Is this because of Jimmy—”

“Don’t.”

“I’m sure there’s a reason—”

“Yes, it’s me!” Thomas spat. “I drive everyone away in the end, don’t I? Even him. Even when he _promised_...” he trailed off, the momentary anger giving way to a crushing grief. To have had every part of Jimmy and then lost it was a million times worse than having nothing to begin with. It was akin to wearing your coat in the house then removing it before walking out into a blizzard.

“Rubbish.” Bates said.

Thomas’s head snapped up.

“Because it’s blindingly obvious to all and sundry that he’s desperately in love with you.” Bates stepped closer and actually put a hand on Thomas’s shaking shoulder. “If he’s stood you up, then I’m sure there’s a reason. If he promised, then he’d be here if he could.”

As far as Thomas knew Bates had never liked either himself or Jimmy very much, and he wouldn’t lie just to save Thomas’s feelings, however much he might need it. If Bates said Jimmy loved him and wouldn’t have stayed away if it could be helped, well, Thomas was strangely inclined to believe him. He truly _was_ desperate then.

Except he wasn’t sure which scenario was worse; Jimmy was staying away because he didn’t want Thomas anymore or because some awful thing had befallen him. Both filled his chest with a cold dread.

“I have to go,” Thomas scrabbled to his feet, wiping his face on his sleeve. “Whatever the reason he’s not here, I have to know.”

“I’ll come—”

“No you bloody _won’t_ —”

“He might be in trouble Thomas, for pity’s sake, so stop being so bloody proud and just let me help you.”

Thomas blinked. Help was help and if Jimmy needed it, well, he’d put up with a lot more than Bates’s pity.

* * *

Jimmy _hurt_. His head hurt, his arms hurt, his legs hurt. Even his toes ached, if that were possible. His eyes didn’t want to open, his limbs didn’t want to respond, and he was bitingly cold. He took several long, steadying breaths and tried to remember what had happened - a deer, the van careening out of control, the moment of weightlessness, the crash. Well, he was alive, at least for now, and that was more than he’d expected. Most weren’t so fortunate.

He forced his eyes open, though he couldn’t see much more once he did. He was inside the van still, but the thing was upside down and he was wedged down where the windscreen used to be, looking up at the pedals. His face was slick with blood - his stomach lurched with panic and he wondered where it was all coming from. It seemed like more than one person should be able to lose and still carry on. He willed himself to get up, using the steering wheel as a handhold as he heaved himself out of the gaping hole where a door should have been, and fell face-first into the snow, his ribs screaming.

He lay there for a moment, cold seeping into his skin, trying to find the strength to turn over. He eventually managed to heave himself on to his back to look up at a sliver of moon in the deep blue-black of sky. He was so incredibly cold - colder than he’d ever been, even when he was at the front, up to his knees in a rain-flooded trench and shaking with fear. His fingers didn’t belong to him anymore, numb digits that refused to move. The only benefit of the cold was that the bits of him that were wrapped in a snowy blanket hurt a bit less than the bits that weren’t.

His breath was a plume of white, shaking with the exertion of escaping the wreck and just turning over. He’d never be able to make it to the Abbey - he couldn’t even sum up the strength to push up to his feet. He didn’t think he’d stay on them if he did somehow manage it.

Jimmy stared up at the moon, his thoughts turning to Thomas, as they always seemed to. Thomas. His Thomas. His love. How would he bear this, too, after everything? Tears pricked at Jimmy’s eyes - the world in general would barely notice his passing, and hardly a tear would be shed for him beyond perhaps Mrs Hughes or Daisy. Maybe his cousin, if someone thought to write to him. It was funny to know how little of a wave he’d made in the world, despite all the years he’d spent claiming he was a tsunami.

But of course, Thomas would care. Too much. Maybe more than he could live with.

And for that, Jimmy determined he would hold on. Because he’d promised. Even as his eyes slipped shut and the snow behind his head turned pink, he held on and breathed in and out and willed his heart to keep pumping.

Because Thomas didn’t deserve to have any more promises broken.

* * *

In the end Bates and Andy both came along, and Mr Branson insisted on driving them, arguing that the weather was too awful to go walking about in the middle of the night. Thomas was, begrudgingly, rather grateful; he’d be able to get to York much more quickly. They were slowly winding their way through the estate, newly-fallen snow on the already-icy roads making the going treacherous, when Andy spotted something.

“Oi, hang on Mr Branson, what’s that?” He pointed out of the window and into the field and Branson stopped so they could get a better look. There, in the field, upside down and wrecked beyond repair, was Jimmy’s van.

“That’s - that’s him!” Thomas shouted and clambered out of the car. He ran as quickly as he could over the icy road and towards the ruined vehicle, with Bates, Andy and Branson close behind.

“Jimmy?!” Thomas called, panic like ice in his veins, his heart beating hard enough to actually make his chest hurt. “Jimmy!! Jimmy where are—” and then he saw him, lying on his back in the snow about five paces away from the upturned van. He was very pale and very still, a bloom of red in the snow around his head. Thomas let out and anguished scream and ran to him, slipping over and banging his knees so hard it sent a shock all the way up to his pelvis. He didn’t care - he crawled the last couple of feet through the snow, hands burning, and cupped Jimmy’s freezing face in his hands.

“Jimmy love, no, please don’t, love please, please!” he wailed.

Branson was beside him, his fingers quickly working Jimmy’s tie and collar loose and pushing up against his neck. “He’s alive - Thomas, he’s alive!”

The words registered dumbly like a flashbulb somewhere in the back of Thomas’s mind. Alive. Not gone - not yet - but he needed to act fast.

“Andy - run back and raise the alarm. Call the hospital and tell them what’s happened and that we’re on the way. I don’t care if you have to wake up the whole bloody house to do it,” Thomas commanded. Andy nodded and set off at a run back towards the Abbey.

“We have to get him out of the snow,” Branson said, “and to the hospital.”

Thomas nodded; Jimmy’s head needed tending to but it wouldn’t do him any good fixing that if he died of hypothermia.

Bates took off his overcoat and laid it on the snow, then the three men lifted Jimmy onto it. He was as floppy as marionette with cut strings and just as cold, his breathing so shallow he seemed lifeless. They managed to manhandle him into the back of the car, wrapped in Bates’s ruined coat, and Thomas held him to his chest, trying to share his warmth. Thomas prayed to a god he didn’t really believe in as they belted down the treacherous lanes.

“Stay with me Jimmy,” Thomas whispered, “please love. Please stay with me.”


	6. December 31st, 1925

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be the end. It’s shorter than the rest but I’m tired of trying to wrangle it so here it is. 
> 
> Unbeta’d as always.

“I s’pose Lady Edith weren’t left at the altar this time an’ all then?” Jimmy said, shoving the piece of wedding cake Thomas had carefully wrapped in a serviette and squirrelled away for him into his mouth. His face still looked like he’d been used as a rugby ball, but the liveliness had come back into his eyes and he was stretching the cut on his lower lip with a grin as he licked a smear of icing from his finger. Thomas felt a wave of relief and love every time he looked at Jimmy’s battered profile. 

“No, not this time,” Thomas said, pulling his chair closer so he could hold Jimmy’s hand. Jimmy wound their fingers together. “She got her happy ever after.”

Jimmy shrugged. “I always thought she was a bit of a mopey plonker, if I’m honest. Walkin’ round with a face like a smacked arse all the time.”

Thomas snorted a laugh. “She hasn’t had much to be happy about.”

“Nor have most of us. At least she’s rich. She should try shovellin’ someone else’s shite for a day then she can mope about all she wants.”

“When have you ever shovelled shite? I mean you _talk_ shite—”

“Bastard—”

“Baldy—”

Jimmy snatched his hand away and folded his arms. “That’s not funny Thomas, my hair will never be the bloody same again.” He self-consciously ran a hand over the shaved hair on the back of his head. Clarkson had to take most of it off so he could deal with the pieces of windshield that had been lodged there. When Jimmy had moaned they should’ve let him _die_ instead, well, that was when Thomas knew he was going to be _fine_.

“It’ll grow back Jimmy - and better the scar is on the back of your head than across the middle of your face.”

Jimmy scrunched up his nose. “Dunno. Might’ve made me all rugged like a pirate or summat.” He reached out for Thomas’s hand again and Thomas took it gladly. “You don’t think I look - uh - tapped? Like I’ve escaped _Bedlam_?”

Thomas barked a laugh then forced his face into a solemn expression. Jimmy was being _serious_. “No you idiot, you look like a man who crashed his sodding van and scared me half to death.”

Jimmy at least looked contrite. “I can’t imagine what you must’ve thought.”

“I thought that you’d thrown me over, actually.”

“I’d never!” Jimmy was scandalised. “I said forever and I mean it. I don’t break me promises, Thomas.”

“I know.” Thomas smiled. “Just your ribs and nearly your bleedin’ neck.”

“Was the deer’s fault,” he sulked, “I’m a good driver.”

“I think the appropriate response is ‘yes dear’.”

That earned Thomas a swat on the arm.

“Something did happen though, at Edith’s wedding.” Thomas paused, unsure if he should even tell Jimmy of Carson’s illness and what had followed. No, honesty was the only way forward from now on - they’d spent far too long being untruthful with each other already. “Carson’s retiring.”

Jimmy’s eyebrows shot up theatrically. “He’s never? I expected him to keep serving until the day he dropped dead at the dining table.”

“An’ he probably would’ve if his hand hadn’t been forced. He’s not well - it’s nothing serious as yet but his hands shake so much he can’t pour the wine.” Thomas found, to his surprise, he actually felt a bit sorry for the old dictator. 

“Blimey,” Jimmy said, then; “What will they do without him, eh?” 

“Actually they uh - they offered me the position.”

Jimmy blinked, then his ever-expressive face flicked through half a dozen emotions in five seconds. It settled into one of his ugly, false smiles and he pulled his hand away to cross his arms over his chest.

“You took it then? Good. It’s what you always wanted and it’s a good position - I mean it’s better than working in a shop ain’t it? And you’ll be in charge of the whole place and I can’t see them ever doing without a butler even if everything else goes eventually so you’ll always have a job and somewhere to live and I know that’s worried you so much and—”

“Jimmy.”

“—you’ll be cock of the walk, Mr Barrow, butler of Downton bloody arse-fucking bastard Abbey and—” he only stopped then because he had to choke down a sob. 

“I told them to stick it up their jumpers.” Thomas said simply. “I said I was glad to be leaving and I wouldn’t be their butler for all the tea in China. Then I stole a piece of cake for you and came here.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

A long pause where Jimmy’s face rolled through emotions like a flickbook until it paused on bashful. 

“I love you,” he said.

“I know. Even if you are an idiot.”

Jimmy grinned and motioned for Thomas to come and sit beside him; Thomas pulled the curtain around Jimmy’s bed closed and obliged, his arm fitting comfortably around the other man’s shoulder as if their height difference had been designed for it to do so.

“We’re a right pair,” Jimmy said, “you had my number the minute I walked into the servant’s hall in nineteen-twenty. I pretend like I’m so - so sure of everything, so cocky but I’m not. Thomas under it all, I’m not. I’m just - I’m lost and the only time I ever feel found is like this—” he gestured to the way they we sitting “when you’ve got me safe in your arms.”

“I’ve always got you,” Thomas said, “always.”

* * *

Jimmy had eventually been allowed to leave the hospital and recuperate at home, which was code for Thomas waiting on him hand and foot despite Jimmy’s protestations that he was fine. Because he wasn’t fine, not really - he had spells of dizziness and his right hand had been left weak, the thumb and first two fingers numb at the tips so that some days he couldn’t even do his buttons up without help. It was nerve damage or something; Jimmy had stopped listening when Clarkson had said it might be permanent.

“How am I supposed to fix ruddy gramophones an’ that if half me fingers don’t work right?” he said, after he’d managed to spill his tea all over the tablecloth one morning. 

Thomas looked at him over the top of his newspaper. “Lucky for you I happen to be an expert in how to manage with a mangled hand.”

Jimmy blinked. How stupid he’d been.

“And John has been showing me how to mend them too, so I can help.” He went back to his paper as if he’d just read Jimmy the weather, not dropped a bomb on the breakfast table.

“What? When?”

“Around running the store and sorting the new van,” Thomas folded his paper, smoothing out the creases in that odd habit he had. He lit two cigarettes and handed one to Jimmy. “It’s a quiet time of year and we’ve not had that much on, so we’ve managed. I’m quite good at it, actually.”

“I knew you would be,” Jimmy said, unable to contain his pride. “It’s more your sort of thing than mine really.”

“An’ you’re better with the customers.” Thomas pointed his teacup at him. “Especially the young ladies.”

Jimmy couldn’t help but grin. “Not jealous are you?”

Thomas smirked. “Once I might’ve been. But then you gave me a ring and let me bugger you to kingdom come every evening—”

“S’not every evening,” Jimmy interjected, “some times _I_ bugger _you_.”

“Well that makes all the difference.” Thomas tapped the ash off his cigarette into an old, chipped teacup that served as an ashtray and fixed Jimmy with his _‘serious conversation’_ expression. “What I’m trying to say, love, is that we’ll be alright. Even if your hand is never quite right - we’ll manage.”

“I know,” Jimmy reached over and took Thomas’s scarred left hand with his newly-damaged right. “An’ you’d think I’d be used to you havin’ to fix me messes an’ save me by now.”

Thomas smiled at him with that smile that made his lips a wobbly red line and seemed to say ‘I love a plonker’. “I think you saved me this time Jimmy. From myself.”

Jimmy looked at their joined, ruined hands on the tabletop - it was as if they’d been made for each other, the way their personalities and physicalities mirrored each other. They were similar in so many ways, and yet opposite in others. Jimmy was loud and frenetic and rash; Thomas was quiet and methodical and thoughtful. Jimmy was compact and muscled and tanned; Thomas tall and lithe and fair. Jimmy’s hair fell in golden waves; Thomas’s gave the inkiest of black skies a run for its money. But, despite their differences, like light and dark, they were two parts of one whole - they only made sense with the other.

“I think,” Jimmy grinned, their future shining clear in his mind like the brightest star in the night sky, “we’ve saved each other.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thanks to everyone who stuck with this despite the erratic posting 😂 Sorry!


End file.
